JULIAN    HAWTHORNE. 


"OU2?   CONTINENT"   LIBEABY. 


DUST: 


A  NOVEL 


JULIAN  HAWTHORNE, 

Author  of  "Bressant, "  "Sebastian  Strome, "  "Idoto- 
try,"  "Garth, "  etc. 


NEW  YCttK : 

FORDS,  HOWARD,  &  HULBERT 

1883 


COPYRIGHT,  1882, 

BY  JULIAN  HAWTHORNS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


JULIAN  HAWTHORNE  (Portrait),     .        .        .   Frontispiece. 

"I  AM  A  BIT  OF  A  SURGEON  ;  LET  ME  LOOK 

AT  YOUR  ARM/ 14 

"PULLING  THEMSELVES  TOGETHER  AND  DIS- 
CUSSING THE  MAGNITUDE  OF  THEIR 
DISASTER," 86 

"I  TIED  THE  CARD  TO  THE  GATE  MYSELF. 

NOBODY  CAN  FAIL  TO  SEE  IT,"      .       .  134 


(iii) 

. 


THE  ACTIONS  OF  THE  JUST 
SMELL  SWEET  AND  BLOSSOM  IN  THE  DUST." 


(v) 


DUST. 


CHAPTEB  L 

THE  time  at  which  this  story  begins  was  a  time  of 
many  beginnings  and  many  endings.  The  Eighteenth 
Century  had  expired  the  better  part  of  a  score  of  years 
before,  and  everything  was  in  confusion.  Youth — tumul- 
tuous, hearty,  reckless,  showy,  slangy,  insolent,  kindly, 
savage — was  the  genius  of  the  hour.  The  Iron  Duke  had 
thrashed  the  Corsican  Ogre,  England  was  the  Queen  of 
nations,  and  Englishmen  thought  so  much  of  themselves 
and  of  one  another  that  society,  for  all  its  caste,  became 
well-nigh  republican.  Gentlemen  were  bruisers  and 
bruisers  were  gentlemen.  At  Kanelagh  and  Vauxhall 
fine  ladies  rubbed  shoulders  with  actresses,  magistrates 
foregathered  with  jockeys  and  sharpers,  and  the  guar- 
dians of  public  order  had  more  to  fear  from  young  bloods 
and  sprigs  of  nobility  than  from  professional  thieves  and 
blacklegs.  Costumes  were  grotesque  and  irrational,  but 
were  worn  with  a  dash  and  effrontery  that  made  them 
becoming.  There  were  cocked  hats  and  steeple-crowned 
hats ;  yards  of  neck-cloth  and  mountains  of  coat-collar ; 
green  coats  and  blue  coats,  claret  coats  and  white  coats ; 
four  or  five  great  coats,  one  on  top  of  another ;  small 
clothes  and  tight  breeches,  corduroys,  hessians  and 
pumps.  Beards  were  shaved  smooth,  and  hair  grew 
long.  Young  ladies  wore  drab  Josephs  and  flat-crowned 

7 


8  DUST. 

beaver  bonnets,  and  rode  to  balls  on  pillions  with  their 
ball  clothes  in  bandboxes.  The  lowest  of  necks  were 
compensated  by  the  shortest  of  waists ;  and  the  gleam  of 
garter-buckles  showed  through  the  filmy  skirts  that 
scarcely  reached  to  the  ankle.  Coral  necklaces  were  the 
fashion,  and  silvery  twilled  silks  and  lace  tuckers ;  and 
these  fine  things  were  laid  up  in  lavender  and  rose  leaves. 
Hair  was  cropped  short  behind  and  dressed  with  flat  curls 
in  front.  Mob-caps  and  top-knotted  caps,  skull-caps  and 
fronts,  turbans  and  muslin  kerchiefs,  and  puffed  yellow 
satins — these  things  were  a  trifle  antiquated,  and  be- 
longed to  the  elder  generation.  Gentlemen  said  "Dammy, 
sir!"  '"Doosid,"  "Egad,"  "Stifle  me!"  "Monstrous 
fine,"  "Faith!"  and  "S'blood!"  The  ladies  said, 
"Thank  God!"  "God  A'mighty!"  and  "Law!"  and 
everybody  said  "Genteel."  Stage-coaches  and  post- 
horses  occupied  the  place  of  railways  and  telegraphs,  and 
driving  was  a  fine  art,  and  five  hours  from  Brighton  to 
London  was  monstrous  slow  going.  Stage-coachmen 
were  among  the  potentates  of  the  day ;  they  could  do 
but  one  thing,  but  that  they  did  perfectly;  they  were 
clannish  among  themselves,  bullies  to  the  poor,  comrades 
to  gentlemen,  lickspittles  to  lords,  and  the  high-priests 
of  horse-flesh,  which  was  at  that  epoch  one  of  the  most 
influential  religions  in  England ;  pugilism  being  another, 
caste  a  third,  and  drunkenness  the  fourth.  A  snuff-box 
was  still  the  universal  wear,  blue-pill  was  the  specific  for 
liver  complaint,  shopping  was  done  in  Cheape  and  Corn- 
hill  ;  fashionable  bloods  lodged  in  High  Holborn,  lounged 
at  Benuet's  and  the  Piazza  Coffee-House,  made  calls  in 
Grosvenor  Square,  looked  in  at  a  dog-fight,  or  to  see 
Kemble,  Siddons  or  Kean  in  the  evening,  and  finished 
the  night  over  rack-punch  and  cards  at  the  club.  Litera- 
ture was  not  much  in  vogue,  though  most  people  had 
read  "  Birron  "  and  the  "  Monk,"  and  many  were  familiar 
with  the  "Dialogues  of  Devils,"  the  "Arabian  Nights," 


DUST.  0 

and  " Zadkiel's  Prophetic  Almanac;"  while  the  "Dairy- 
man's Daughter  "  either  had  been  written  or  soon  was  to 
be.  Eoyalty  and  nobility  showed  themselves  much  more 
freely  than  they  do  now.  George  the  Third  was  still 
King  of  England,  and  George,  his  son,  was  still  the  first 
gentleman  and  foremost  blackguard  of  Europe ;  and 
everything,  in  short,  was  outwardly  very  different  from 
what  it  is  at  the  present  day.  Nevertheless,  underneath 
all  appearances,  flowed  then,  as  now,  the  mighty  current 
of  human  nature.  Then,  as  now,  mothers  groaned  that 
infants  might  be  born ;  poverty  and  wealth  were  married 
in  every  human  soul,  so  that  beggars  were  rich  in  some 
things  and  princes  poor  in  others ;  young  men  and  wo- 
men fell  in  love,  and  either  fell  out  again,  or  wedded,  or 
took  the  law  into  their  own  hands,  or  jilted  one  another, 
just  as  they  do  now.  Men  in  power  were  tyrannous  or 
just,  pompous  or  simple,  wise  or  foolish,  and  men  in  sub- 
jection were  faithful  or  dishonest,  servile  or  self-respect- 
ful, scheming  or  contented,  then  as  now.  Then,  no  less 
than  now,  some  men  broke  one  Commandment,  some  an- 
other, and  some  broke  all ;  and  the  young  looked  forward 
to  a  good  time  coming  and  the  old  prophesied  misfortune. 
At  that  epoch,  as  in  this,  Death  plied  his  trade  after  his 
well-known  fashion,  which  seems  so  cruel  and  arbitrary, 
and  is  so  merciful  and  wise.  And  finally — to  make  an 
end  of  this  summary — the  human  race  was  predestined 
to  good,  and  the  individual  human  being  was  free  to 
choose  either  good  or  evil,  the  same  then  as  now  and 
always.  And — to  leave  generalities  and  begin  upon  par- 
ticulars— it  was  at  this  time  that  Mrs.  Lockhart  (who, 
seven-and-forty  years  ago,  as  lovely  Fanny  Pell,  had 
cherished  a  passing  ideal  passion  for  Handsome  Tom 
Grantley,  and  had  got  over  it  and  married  honest  young 
Lieutenant  Lockhart)  —  that  Mrs.  Lockhart,  we  say, 
having  lost  her  beloved  Major  at  Waterloo,  and  finding 
herself  in  somewhat  narrow  circumstances,  had  made  up 


10  BUST. 

her  mind  to  a  new  departure  in  life,  and  had,  in  accord- 
ance with  this  determination,  caused  her  daughter  Marion 
to  write  "  Lodgings  to  Let "  on  a  card,  and  to  hang  the 
same  up  in  the  window  of  the  front  drawing-room.  This 
event  occurred  on  the  morning  of  the  third  of  May, 
Eighteen  hundred  and  sixteen. 


CHAPTER  IL 

THAT  same  day  the  Brighton  coach  was  bowling  along 
the  road  to  London  at  the  rate  of  something  over  five 
minutes  to  the  mile,  a  burly,  much  be-caped  Jehu  on  the 
box  and  a  couple  of  passengers  on  the  seat  on  either  side 
of  him.  The  four  horses,  on  whose  glistening  coats  the 
sunshine  shifted  pleasantly,  seemed  dwarfed  by  the  blun- 
dering structure  which  trundled  at  their  heels,  and  which 
occasionally  swayed  top-heavily  from  side  to  side  like  a 
vessel  riding  the  seas.  Jehu  had  for  the  time  being  sur- 
rendered the  reins  to  the  young  gentleman  who  sat  beside 
him.  The  youth  in  question  was  fashionably  dressed,  so 
far  as  could  be  judged  from  the  glimpses  of  his  attire  that 
showed  beneath  the  layers  of  benjamins  in  which  his 
rather  diminutive  person  was  enveloped.  His  narrow 
face  wore  a  rakish  but  supercilious  expression,  which 
was  enhanced  by  his  manner  of  wearing  a  hat  shaped 
like  a  truncated  cone  with  a  curled  brim.  He  sat  erect 
and  square,  with  an  exaggerated  dignity,  as  if  the  im- 
portance of  the  whole  coach-and-four  were  concentrated 
in  himself. 

"  You  can  do  it,  Mr.  Bendibow — you  can  do  it,  sir," 
remarked  Jehu,  in  a  tone  half-way  between  subservience 
and  patronage.  "  You  've  got  it  in  you,  sir,  and  do  you 
know  why  ?" 

"Well,  to  be  sure,  I've  had  some  practice,"  said  Mr. 
Bendibow,  conscious  of  his  worth  and  pleased  to  have  it 
commended,  but  with  the  modesty  of  true  genius,  for- 
bearing to  admit  himself  miraculous. 

Jehu  shook  his  head  solemnly.    "  Practice  be  damned, 
11 


13  DUST. 

sir  I  What 's  practice,  I  ask,  to  a  man  what  hadn't  got 
it  in  him  beforehand  ?  It  was  in  your  blood,  Mr.  Bendi- 
bow,  afore  ever  you  was  out  of  your  cradle,  sir.  Because 
why?  Because  your  father,  Sir  Francis,  as  fine  a 
gen'lman  and  as  open-handed  as  ever  sat  on  a  box,  was 
as  good  a  whip  as  might  be  this  side  o'  London,  and  I 
makes  no  doubt  but  what  he  is  so  to  this  day.  That 's 
what  I  say,  and  if  any  says  different  why  I  'm  ready  to 
back  it."  In  uttering  this  challenge  Jehu  stared  about 
him  with  a  hectoring  air,  but  without  meeting  any  one's 
eye,  as  if  defying  things  in  general  but  no  one  in  par- 
ticular. 

"  Is  Sir  Francis  Bendibow  living  still  ?  Pardon  me 
the  question ;  I  formerly  had  some  slight  acquaintance 
with  the  gentleman,  but  for  a  good  many  years  past  I 
have  lived  out  of  the  country." 

These  were  the  first  words  that  the  speaker  of  them 
had  uttered.  He  was  a  meagre,  elderly  man,  rather 
shabbily  dressed,  and  sat  second  from  the  coachman  on 
the  left.  While  speaking  he  leaned  forward,  allowing  his 
visage  to  emerge  from  the  bulwark  of  coat  collar  that 
rose  on  either  side  of  it.  It  was  a  remarkable  face, 
though  at  first  sight  not  altogether  a  winning  one.  The 
nose  was  an  abrupt  aquiline,  thin  at  the  bridge,  but  with 
distended  nostrils;  the  mouth  was  straight,  the  lips 
seeming  thin,  rather  from  a  constant  habit  of  pressing 
them  together  than  from  natural  conformation.  The 
bony  chin  slanted  forward  aggressively,  increasing  the 
uncompromising  aspect  of  the  entire  countenance.  The 
eyebrows,  of  a  pale  auburn  hue,  were  sharply  arched, 
and  the  eyes  beneath  were  so  widely  opened  that  the 
whole  circle  of  the  iris  was  visible.  The  complexion  of 
this  person,  judging  from  the  color  of  the  hair,  should 
have  been  blonde ;  but  either  owing  to  exposure  to  the 
air  or  from  some  other  cause  it  was  of  a  deep  reddish- 
brown  tint.  His  voice  was  bis  most  attractive  feature, 


DVST.  18 

being  well  modulated  and  of  an  agreeable  though  pene- 
trating quality,  and  to  some  ears  it  might  have  been  a 
guarantee  of  the  speaker's  gentility  strong  enough  to 
outweigh  the  indications  of  his  somewhat  threadbare 
costume. 

"  My  father  is  in  good  health,  to  the  best  of  my  know- 
ledge," said  young  Mr.  Bendibow,  glancing  at  the  other 
and  speaking  curtly.  Then  he  added :  "  You  have  the 
advantage  of  me,  sir." 

"  I  call  myself  Grant,"  returned  the  elderly  man. 

"  Never  heard  my  father  mention  the  name,"  said  Mr. 
Bendibow  loftily. 

"I  dare  say  not,"  replied  Mr.  Grant,  relapsing  into 
his  coat  collar. 

"  Some  folks,"  observed  Jehu  in  a  meditative  tone,  yet 
loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  all — "some  folks  thinks  to 
gain  credit  by  speaking  the  names  of  those  superior  to 
them  in  station.  Other  folks  thinks  that  fine  names  don't 
mend  ragged  breeches.  I  speaks  my  opinion,  because 
why  ?  Because  I  backs  it." 

"  You  'd  better  mind  your  horses,"  said  the  gentleman 
who  sat  between  the  coachman  and  Mr.  Grant.  "There  1 
— catch  hold  of  my  arm,  sirl" 

The  last  words  were  spoken  to  Mr.  Grant  just  as  the 
coach  lurched  heavily  to  one  side  and  toppled  over.  The 
off  leader  had  shied  at  a  tall  white  mile-stone  that  stood 
conspicuous  at  a  corner  of  the  road,  and  before  Mr.  Ben- 
dibow could  gather  up  his  reins  the  right  wheels  of  the 
vehicle  had  entered  the  ditch  and  the  whole  machine  was 
hurled  off  its  balance  into  the  hedge-row.  The  outside 
passengers,  with  the  exception  of  one  or  two  who  clung 
to  their  seats,  were  projected  into  the  field  beyond,  to- 
gether with  a  number  of  boxes  and  portmanteaux.  The 
wheelers  lost  their  footing  and  floundered  in  the  ditch, 
while  the  leaders,  struggling  furiously,  snapped  their 
harness  and  careered  down  the  road.  From  within  the 


14  DUST. 

coach  meanwhile  proceeded  the  sound  of  feminine  screams 
and  lamentation. 

The  first  thing  clearly  perceptible  amidst  the  confusion 
was  the  tremendous  oath  of  which  the  coachman  deliv- 
ered himself,  as  he  upreared  his  ponderous  bulk  from  the 
half-inanimate  figure  of  young  Mr.  Bendibow,  upon  whom 
he  had  fallen,  having  himself  received  at  the  same  time  a 
smart  blow  on  the  ear  from  a  flying  carpet-bag.  The 
next  person  to  arise  was  Mr.  Grant,  who  appeared  to 
have  escaped  unhurt,  and  after  a  moment  the  gentleman 
who,  by  interposing  himself  between  the  other  and 
danger,  had  broken  his  fall,  also  got  to  his  feet,  looking  a 
trifle  pale  about  the  lips. 

"  I  much  fear,  sir,"  said  the  elder  man,  with  an  accent 
of  grave  concern  in  his  voice,  "  that  I  have  been  the  occa- 
sion of  your  doing  yourself  an  injury.  You  have  saved 
my  bones  at  the  cost  of  your  own.  I  am  a  bit  of  a  sur- 
geon ;  let  me  look  at  your  arm." 

"Not  much  harm  done,  I  fancy,"  returned  the  other, 
forcing  a  smile.  "There's  something  awkward  here, 
though,"  he  added  the  next  moment.  "A  joint  out  of 
kilter,  perhaps." 

"I  apprehend  as  much,"  said  Mr.  Grant.  He  passed 
his  hand  underneath  the  young  man's  coat.  "  Ay,  there 's 
a  dislocation  here,"  he  continued;  "but  if  you  can  bear 
a  minute's  pain  I  can  put  it  right  again.  We  must  get 
your  coat  off,  and  then — " 

"  Better  get  the  ladies  out  of  their  cage  first ;  that 's 
not  so  much  courtesy  on  my  part  as  that  I  wish  to  put  off 
'the  painful  minute  you  speak  of  as  long  as  may  be.  I  'm 
a  damnable  coward — should  sit  down  and  cry  if  I  were 
alone.  Ladies  first,  for  my  sake  1" 

"You  laugh,  sir;  but  if  that  shoulder  is  not  in  place 
immediately  it  may  prove  no  laughing  matter.  The 
ladies  are  doing  very  well — they  have  found  a  rescuer 
already.  Your  coat  off,  if  you  please.  What  fools 


'  I  AM  A  BIT  OF  A  SURGEON  ;  LET  ME  LOOK  AT 
YOUR  ARM." 


is 

fashion  makes  of  men  I  Where  I  come  from  none  wear 
coats  save  Englishmen,  and  even  they  are  satisfied  with 
one.  Ah!  that  was  a  twinge;  it  were  best  to  cut  the 
sleeve  perhaps  ?" 

"In  the  name  of  decency,  no!  To  avoid  trouble,  I 
have  long  carried  my  wardrobe  on  my  back,  and  'twould 
never  do  to  enter  London  with  a  shirt  only.  Better  a 
broken  bone  than  a  wounded  coat  sleeve — ha !  well,  this 
is  for  my  sins,  I  suppose.  I  wish  Providence  would  keep 
the  punishment  till  all  the  sins  are  done — this  piecemeal 
retribution  is  the  devil.  Well,  now  for  it !  Sir,  I  wish 
you  were  less  humane — my  flesh  and  bones  cry  out 
against  your  humanity.  Dryden  was  wrong,  confound 
him!  Pity  is  akin  to — to — whew! — to  the  Inquisition. 
God  Apollo  I  shall  I  ever  write  poetry  after  this  ?  And 
'tis  only  a  left  arm,  after  all ! — not  to  be  left  alone,  how- 
ever— ah  1  ...  A  thousand  thanks,  sir ;  but  you  leave 
me  ten  years  older  than  you  found  me.  Our  acquaint- 
ance has  been  a  long  and  (candor  compels  me  to  say)  a 
confoundedly  painful  one.  To  be  serious,  I  am  heartily 
indebted  to  you." 

"  Take  a  pull  at  this  flask,  young  gentleman ;  'tis  good 
cognac  that  I  got  as  I  came  through  France.  I  recollect 
to  have  read,  when  I  was  a  boy  in  school,  that  Nero  fid- 
dled whilst  Rome  was  burning:  you  seem  to  have  a 
measure  of  his  humor,  since  you  can  jest  while  the  frame- 
work of  your  mortal  dwelling-place  is  in  jeopardy.  As 
for  your  indebtedness — my  neck  may  be  worth  much  or 
little,  but,  such  as  it  is,  you  saved  it.  The  balance  is 
still  against  me." 

"  Leave  balances  to  bankers :  otherwise  we  might  have 
to  express  our  obligations  to  Mr.  Bendibow,  there,  for 
introducing  us  to  each  other.  Does  no  one  here,  besides 
myself,  need  your  skill?" 

"  It  appears  not,  to  judge  by  the  noise  they  make,"  re- 
plied the  old  gentleman  dryly.  "  That  blackguard  of  a 


18  DV6T. 

coachman  should  lose  his  place  for  this.  The  manners  of 
these  fellows  have  changed  for  the  worse  since  I  saw 

England  last.  How  do  you  find  yourself,  Mr. 1  beg 

your  pardon?" 

"Lancaster  is  my  name;  and  I  feel  very  much  like 
myself  again,"  returned  the  other,  getting  up  from  the 
bank  against  which  he  had  been  reclining  while  the 
shoulder-setting  operation  had  been  going  on,  and  stretch- 
ing out  his  arms  tentatively. 

As  he  stood  there,  Mr.  Grant  looked  at  him  with  the 
eye  of  a  man  accustomed  to  judge  of  men.  With  his 
costume  reduced  to  shirt,  small-clothes  and  hessians, 
young  Lancaster  showed  to  advantage.  He  was  above 
the  medium  height,  and  strongly  made,  deep  in  the  chest 
and  elastic  in  the  loins.  A  tall  and  massive  white  throat 
supported  a  head  that  seemed  small,  but  was  of  remark- 
ably fine  proportions  and  character.  The  contours  of 
the  face  were,  in  some  places,  so  refined  as  to  appear 
feminine,  yet  the  expression  of  the  principal  features  was 
eminently  masculine  and  almost  bold.  Large  black  eyes 
answered  to  the  movements  of  a  sensitive  and  rather 
sensuous  mouth ;  the  chin  was  round  and  resolute.  The 
young  man's  hair  was  black  and  wavy,  and  of  a  length 
that,  in  our  day,  would  be  called  effeminate ;  it  fell  apart 
at  the  temple  in  a  way  to  show  the  unusual  height  and 
fineness  of  the  forehead.  The  different  parts  of  the  face 
were  fitted  together  compactly  and  smoothly,  without 
creases,  as  if  all  had  been  moulded  from  one  motive  and 
idea — not  as  if  composed  of  a  number  of  inharmonious 
ancestral  prototypes :  yet  the  range  of  expression  was 
large  and  vivid.  The  general  aspect  in  repose  indicated 
gravity  and  reticence ;  but  as  soon  as  a  smile  began,  then 
.appeared  gleams  and  curves  of  a  humorous  gayety.  And 
there  was  a  brilliance  and  concentration  in  the  whole 
presence  of  the  man  which  was  within  and  distinct  from 


DUST.  IT 

his  physical  conformation,  and  which  rendered  him  con- 
spicuous and  memorable. 

"Lancaster — the  name  is  not  unknown  to  me,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Grant,  but  in  an  indrawn  tone,  characteristic 
of  a  man  accustomed  to  communing  with  himself. 

During  this  episode,  the  other  travelers  had  been 
noisily  and  confusedly  engaged  in  pulling  themselves 
together  and  discussing  the  magnitude  of  their  disaster. 
Some  laborers,  whom  the  accident  had  attracted  from  a 
neighboring  field,  were  pressed  into  service  to  help  in 
setting  matters  to  rights.  One  was  sent  after  the  escaped 
horses ;  others  lent  their  hands  and  shoulders  to  the  task 
of  getting  the  coach  out  of  the  ditch  and  replacing  the 
luggage  upon  it.  Mr.  Bendibow,  seated  upon  his  port- 
manteau, his  fashionable  attire  much  outraged  by  the 
clayey  soil  into  which  he  had  fallen,  maintained  a  de- 
meanor of  sullen  indignation;  being  apparently  of  the 
opinion  that  the  whole  catastrophe  was  the  result  of  a 
conspiracy  between  the  rest  of  the  passengers  against  his 
own  person.  The  coachman,  in  a  semi-apoplectic  con- 
dition from  the  combined  effects  of  dismay,  suppressed 
profanity,  and  a  bloody  jaw,  was  striving  with  hasty  and 
shaking  fingers  to  mend  the  broken  harness ;  the  ladies 
were  grouped  together  in  the  roadway  in  a  shrill-com- 
plaining and  hysteric  cluster,  protesting  by  turns  that 
nothing  should  induce  them  ever  to  enter  the  vehicle 
again,  and  that  unless  it  started  at  once  their  prospects 
of  reaching  London  before  dark  would  be  at  an  end. 
Lancaster  glanced  at  his  companion  with  an  arch  smile. 

"  My  human  sympathies  can't  keep  abreast  of  so  much 
distress,"  said  he.  "I  shall  take  myself  off.  Hammer- 
smith cannot  be  more  than  three  or  four  miles  distant, 
and  my  legs  will  be  all  the  better  for  a  little  stretching. 
If  you  put  up  at  the  '  Plough  and  Harrow  '  to-night,  we 
may  meet  again  in  an  hour  or  two ;  meantime  I  will  bid 


18  DUST. 

you  good-day ;  and,  once  more,  many  thanks  for  your 
surgery." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  into  which  Mr.  Grant  put  his 
own.  "A  brisk  walk  will  perhaps  be  the  best  thing  for 
you,"  he  remarked.  "Guard  against  a  sudden  check  of 
perspiration  when  you  arrive ;  and  bathe  the  shoulder 
with  a  lotion  .  .  .  by-the-by,  would  you  object  to  a 
fellow-pedestrian  ?  I  was  held  to  be  a  fair  walker  in  my 
younger  days,  and  I  have  not  altogether  lost  the  habit 
of  it." 

"It  will  give  me  much  pleasure,"  returned  the  other, 
cordially. 

"  Then  I  am  with  you,"  rejoined  the  elder  man. 

They  gave  directions  that  their  luggage  should  be  put 
down  at  the  "Plough  and  Harrow,"  and  set  off  together 
along  the  road  without  more  ado. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THEY  had  not  made  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile, 
when  the  tramp  of  hoofs  and  trundle  of  wheels  caused 
them  to  turn  round  with  an  exclamation  of  surprise  that 
the  coach  should  so  speedily  have  recovered  itself.  A 
first  glance  showed  them,  however,  that  the  vehicle  ad- 
vancing toward  them  was  a  private  carriage.  Two  of  the 
horses  carried  postilions;  the  carriage  was  painted  red 
and  black ;  and  as  it  drew  near  a  coat  of  arms  was  seen 
emblazoned  on  the  door-panel.  The  turn-out  evidently 
belonged  to  a  person  of  quality,  and  there  was  something 
in  its  aspect  which  suggested  a  foreign  nationality.  The 
two  gentlemen  stood  on  one  side  to  let  it  pass.  As  it  did 
so,  Mr.  Grant  said,  "The  lady  looked  at  you  as  if  she 
knew  you." 

"Me!  a  lady?"  returned  Lancaster,  who  had  been  so 
occupied  in  watching  the  fine  action  of  one  of  the  leaders, 
as  to  have  had  no  eyes  for  the  occupants  of  the  carriage. 

As  he  spoke  the  carriage  stopped  a  few  rods  beyond 
them,  and  a  lady,  who  was  neither  young  nor  beautiful, 
put  her  head  out  of  the  window  and  motioned  to  Lan- 
caster with  her  lifted  finger.  Muttering  an  apology  to 
his  companion,  the  young  man  strode  forward,  wondering 
what  new  adventure  might  be  in  store  for  him.  But  on 
reaching  the  carriage-door  his  wonder  came  to  an  end. 
There  were  two  ladies  inside,  and  only  one  of  them  was 
unbeauliful.  The  other  was  young  and  in  every  way  at- 
tractive. Her  appearance  and  manner  were  those  of  a 
personage  of  distinction,  but  her  fair  visage  was  alive 
with  a  subtle  luminousness  and  mobility  of  expression 

19 


20  DUST. 

which  made  formality  in  her  seem  a  playful  grace  rather 
than  an  artificial  habit.  The  margin  of  her  face  was 
swathed  in  the  soft  folds  of  a  silken  hood,  but  a  strand  of 
reddish  hair  curled  across  her  white  forehead,  and  a  pair 
of  dark,  swift-moving  and  very  penetrating  eyes  met  with 
a  laughing  sparkle  the  eyes  of  Lancaster.  He  doffed  his 
hat. 

"  Madame  la  Marquise !  In  England  !  "Where  is  Mon- 
sieur ? —  " 

"Hush!  You  are  the  same  as  ever — you  meet  me 
afte1  -x  months,  and  instead  of  saying  you  are  glad  to 
see  me,  you  ask  where  is  the  Marquis !  Ma, foil  I  don't 
know  where  he  is." 

"  Surely  Madame  la  Marquise  does  not  need  to  be  told 
how  glad  I  am —  " 

"Pshaw!  Don't  'Madame  la  Marquise'  me,  Philip 
Lancaster !  Are  we  not  old  friends — old  enough,  eh  ? 
Tell  me  what  you  were  doing  walking  along  this  road 
with  that  shabby  old  man?" 

"Old  gentleman,  Madame  la  Marquise.  The  coach 
was  upset —  " 

"  What !  You  were  on  that  coach  that  we  passed  just 
now  in  the  ditch?  You  were  not  hurt  ?" 

"If  it  had  not  been  for  this  shabby  old  gentleman  I 
might  have  been  a  cripple  for  life." 

"  Oh !  I  beg  his  pardon.  Where  do  you  go,  then  ?  To 
London  ?" 

"Not  so  far.  I  shall  look  for  lodgings  in  Hammer- 
smith." 

"Nonsense I  Hammersmith?  I  never  heard  of  such 
a  place.  What  should  you  do  there  ?  You  will  live  in 
London — near  me — n'est-ce  pas?" 

"  I  have  work  to  do.  I  must  keep  out  of  society  for 
the  present.  You —  " 

"  Listen !  For  the  present,  I  keep  out  of  society  also. 
1  am  incognito.  No  one  knows  I  am  here ;  no  one  will 


DUST.  21 

know  till  the  time  comes.  We  shall  keep  each  other's 
secrets.  But  we  cannot  converse  here.  Get  in  here  be- 
side me,  and  on  the  way  I  will  tell  you  .  .  .  something ! 
Come." 

"You  are  very  kind,  but  I  have  made  my  arrange- 
ments ;  and,  besides,  I  am  engaged  to  walk  with  this 
gentleman.  If  you  will  tell  me  where  I  may  pay  my  re- 
spects to  you  and  Monsieur  le  Marquis —  " 

"  You  are  very  stupid  !  I  shall  tell  you  nothing  unless 
you  come  into  the  carriage.  Monsieur  le  Marquis  is  not 
here — he  never  will  be  here.  I  am  .  .  .  well  you  need 
not  stare  so.  What  do  you  suppose  I  am,  then?" 

"  You  are  very  mysterious." 

"I  am  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  am  ...  a  widow. 
There!" 

Philip  Lancaster  lifted  his  eyebrows  and  bowed. 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?"  demanded  the  Marquise 
sharply ;  "  that  you  congratulate  me  ?" 

"By  no  means,  Madame." 

She  drew  herself  up  haughtily,  and  eyed  him  for  a  mo- 
ment. "It  appears  that  your  coach  has  upset  you  in 
more  ways  than  one.  I  apologize  for  interrupting  you  in 
your  walk.  Beyond  doubt,  your  friend  there  is  very 
charming.  You  are  impatient  to  say  farewell  to  me." 

"Nothing  more  than  'au  reuoir,'  I  hope." 

She  let  her  haughtiness  slip  from  her  like  a  garment, 
and,  leaning  forward,  she  touched  with  her  soft  fingers 
his  hand  which  rested  upon  the  carriage  door. 

"You  will  come  here  and  sit  beside  me,  Philip? 
Yes?"  Her  eyes  dwelt  upon  his  with  an  expectation 
that  was  almost  a  command. 

"  You  force  me  to  seem  discourteous,"  he  said,  biting 
his  lips,  "  but —  " 

"  There  !  do  not  distress  yourself,"  she  exclaimed  with 
a  laugh,  and  leaning  back  in  her  seat.  "  Adieu  1  I  do 
not  recognize  you  in  England  :  in  Paris  you  were  not  so 


23  BUST. 

much  an  Englishman.  If  we  meet  in  Paris  perhaps  we 
shall  know  each  other  again.  Madame  Cabot,  have  the 
goodness  to  tell  the  coachman  to  drive  on."  These 
words  were  spoken  in  French. 

Madame  Cabot,  the  elderly  and  unbeautiful  lady  al- 
ready alluded  to,  who  had  sat  during  this  colloquy  with 
a  face  as  unmoved  as  if  English  were  to  her  the  same  as 
Choctaw,  gave  the  order  desired,  the  horses  started,  and 
Philip  Lancaster,  left  alone  by  the  roadside,  put  on  his 
hat,  with  a  curve  of  his  lip  that  was  not  either  a  smile  or 
a  sneer. 

Mr.  Grant,  meanwhile,  had  strolled  onward,  and  was 
now  some  distance  down  the  road.  He  waited  for  Lan- 
caster to  rejoin  him,  holding  his  open  snuff-box  in  his 
hand  ;  and  when  the  young  man  came  up,  he  offered  him 
a  pinch,  which  the  latter  declined.  The  two  walked  on 
together  for  several  minutes  in  silence,  Lancaster  only 
having  said,  "  I  am  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting— an 
acquaintance  whom  I  met  abroad ;"  to  which  Mr.  Grant 
had  replied  by  a  mere  nod  of  the  head.  By-and-by,  how- 
ever, he  said,  in  resumption  of  the  conversation  which 
had  been  going  on  previous  to  the  Marquise's  interrup- 
tion: 

"  Is  it  many  years  then  since  you  left  England  ?" 

"Seven  or  eight — long  enough  for  a  man  of  my  age. 
But  you  have  been  absent  even  longer  ?" 

"  Yes ;  much  has  been  changed  since  my  time.  It  has 
been  a  period  of  changes.  Now  that  Bonaparte  is  gone, 
we  may  hope  for  repose.  England  needs  repose:  so  do  I 
— though  my  vicissitudes  have  not  been  involved  in  hers. 
I  have  lived  apart  from  the  political  imbroglio.  But  you 
must  have  been  in  the  midst  of  it.  Did  you  see  Water- 
loo ?" 

"  Only  the  remains  of  it :  I  was  a  non-combatant. 
Major  Lockhart — a  gentleman  I  met  in  Paris  about  three 
years  ago,  a  tine  fellow  and  a  good  soldier — we  ran  across 


DUST.  28 

each  other  again  in  Brussels,  a  few  days  before  the  battle. 
Lockhart  was  killed.  He  was  a  man  of  over  sixty ;  was 
married,  and  had  a  grown-up  daughter,  I  believe.  He 
had  been  living  at  home  with  his  family  since  '13,  and 
had  hoped  to  see  no  more  fighting.  When  he  did  not 
come  back  with  his  regiment,  I  rode  out  to  look  for  him, 
and  found  his  body.  That 's  all  I  know  of  Waterloo." 
"  You  never  bore  arms  yourself?" 
"No.  My  father  was  a  clergyman;  not  that  that 
would  make  much  difference  ;  besides,  he  was  not  of  the 
bookworm  sort,  and  didn't  object  to  a  little  fox-hunting 
and  sparring.  But  I  have  never  believed  in  anything 
enough  to  fight  for  it.  I  am  like  the  Duke  in  'Measure 
for  Measure' — a  looker-on  at  life." 

"Ah!  I  can  conceive  that  such  an  occupation  may  be 
not  less  arduous  than  any.  But  do  you  confine  yourself 
to  that  ?  Do  you  never  record  your  impressions  ? — culti- 
vate literature,  for  example  ?" 

Lancaster's  face  flushed  a  little,  and  he  turned  his 
head  toward  his  companion  with  a  quick,  inquiring  look. 
"  How  came  you  to  think  of  that  ?"  he  asked. 

The  old  gentleman  passed  his  hand  down  over  his 
mouth  and  chin,  as  if  to  correct  an  impulse  to  smile.  "It 
was  but  a  chance  word  of  your  own,  while  I  was  at  work 
upon  your  shoulder-joint,"  he  replied.  "You  let  fall 
some  word  implying  that  you  had  written  poetry.  I  am 
very  slightly  acquainted  with  modern  English  literature, 
and  could  not  speak  from  personal  knowledge  of  your 
works  were  you  the  most  renowned  poet  of  the  day. 
Pardon  me  the  liberty." 

Lancaster  looked  annoyed  for  a  moment ;  but  the  next 
moment  he  laughed.  "You  cannot  do  me  a  better  ser- 
vice than  to  show  me  that  I'm  a  fool,"  he  said.  "I 'm 
apt  to  forget  it.  In  theory,  I  care  not  a  penny  whether 
what  I  write  is  read  or  not ;  but  I  do  care  all  the  same. 
I  pretend  to  be  a  looker-on  at  life  from  philosophical 


24  DUST. 

motives ;  but,  in  fact,  it 's  nothing  but  laziness.  I  try  to 
justify  myself  by  scribbling  poetry,  and  am  pleased  when 
I  find  that  any  one  has  discovered  my  justification.  But 
if  I  were  really  satisfied  with  myself,  I  should  leave  jus- 
tification to  whom  it  might  concern." 

"My  existence  has  been  passed  in  what  are  called 
practical  affairs,"  Mr.  Grant  returned;  "but  I  am  not 
ready  to  say  that,  considered  in  themselves,  they  have  as 
much  real  life  in  them  as  a  single  verse  of  true  poetry. 
Poetry  and  music  are  things  beyond  my  power  to  achieve, 
but  not  to  enjoy.  The  experience  of  life  which  cannot 
be  translated  into  poetry  or  music  is  a  lifeless  and  profit- 
less experience."  He  checked  himself,  and  added  in  his 
usual  tone:  "I  mean  to  say  that,  man  of  business 
though  I  am,  I  am  not  unacquainted  with  the  writings 
of  poets,  and  I  take  great  delight  in  them.  The  wisest 
thing  a  man  can  do  is,  I  apprehend,  to  augment  the  en- 
joyment of  other  men.  Commerce  and  politics  aim  to 
develop  our  own  wealth  and  power  at  the  cost  of  others ; 
but  poetry,  like  love,  gives  to  all,  and  asks  for  nothing 
except  to  be  received." 

"  Have  a  care,  or  you  will  undo  the  service  I  have  just 
thanked  you  for.  Besides,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  poetry  in 
our  days  not  only  asks  to  be  received,  but  to  be  received 
by  publishers,  and  paid  for  1" 

Something  in  the  young  man's  manner  of  saying  this, 
rather  than  the  saying  itself,  seemed  to  strike  Mr.  Grant, 
for  he  glanced  at  the  other  with  a  momentary  keenness 
of  scrutiny,  and  presently  said : 

"Your  father,  I  think  you  mentioned,  was  a  clergy- 
man ?" 

"He  was  Herbert  Lancaster." 

Mr.  Grant  halted  for  a  moment  in  his  walk  to  extract 
his  snuff-box  from  his  pocket.  After  having  taken  a 
pinch,  he  again  gave  a  sharp  look  at  his  companion,  and 
observed  as  he  walked  on : 


DUST.  25 

"My  prolonged  absence  from  my  native  land  has  made 
my  recollection  of  such  matters  a  little  rusty,  but  am  I 
mistaken  in  supposing  there  is  a  title  in  the  family  ?" 

"My  uncle  is  Lord  Croftus — the  fifth  baron." 

"Ah!  precisely;  yes,  yes.  Then  was  it  not  your  father 
who  married  a  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Seabridge  ?  or  am 
I  confounding  him  with  another  ?" 

"You  are  quite  right.  He  married  the  youngest 
daughter,  Alice ;  and  I  am  their  only  child,  for  lack  of 
a  better." 

"Ah!  Very  singular,"  returned  Mr.  Grant;  but  he 
did  not  explain  in  what  the  singularity  consisted. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MRS.  LOCKHART'S  house  at  Hammersmith  had  been 
considered  a  good  house  in  its  day,  and  was  still  decent 
and  comfortable.  It  stood  on  a  small  side  street  which 
branched  off  from  the  main  road  in  the  direction  of  the 
river,  and  was  built  of  dark  red  brick,  with  plain  white- 
sashed  windows.  It  occupied  the  centre  of  an  oblong 
plot  of  ground  about  half  an  acre  in  extent,  with  a  high 
brick  wall  all  round  it,  except  in  front,  where  space  was 
left  for  a  wrought-iron  gate,  hung  between  two  posts, 
with  an  heraldic  animal  of  ambiguous  species  sitting  up- 
right on  each  of  them.  The  straight  path  which  led 
from  this  gate  to  the  front  door  of  the  house  was  paved 
with  broad  square  flagstones,  kept  very  clean.  In  the 
midst  of  the  grass-plot  on  the  left,  as  you  entered,  was  a 
dark-hued  cedar  of  Lebanon,  whose  flattened  layers  of 
foliage  looked  out  of  keeping  with  the  English  climate 
and  the  character  of  English  trees.  At  the  back  of  the 
house  was  an  orchard,  comprising  three  ancient  apple- 
trees  and  the  lifeless  stump  of  the  fourth ;  some  sun- 
flowers and  hollyhocks,  alternating  with  gooseberry 
bushes,  were  planted  along  the  walls,  which,  for  the  most 
part,  were  draped  in  ivy.  The  interior  of  the  building 
showed  a  wide  hall,  giving  access  to  a  staircase,  which, 
after  attaining  a  broad  landing,  used  as  a  sort  of  an  open 
sitting-room,  and  looking  out  through  a  window  upon 
the  back  garden,  mounted  to  the  region  of  bed-rooms. 
The  ground  floor  was  divided  into  three  rooms  and  a 
kitchen,  all  of  comfortable  dimensions,  and  containing 
sober  and  presentable  furniture.  In  the  drawing-room, 
26 


DUST.  27 

moreover,  hung  a  portrait,  taken  in  1805,  of  the  deceased 
master  of  the  establishment;  and  a  miniature  of  the 
same  gentleman,  in  a  gold-rimmed  oval  frame,  reposed 
upon  Mrs.  Lockhart's  work-table.  The  sideboard  in  the 
dining-room  supported  a  salver  and  some  other  articles 
of  plate  which  had  belonged  to  Mrs.  Lockhart's  family, 
and  which,  when  she  surrendered  her  maiden  name  of 
Fanny  Pell,  had  been  included  in  her  modest  dowry. 
For  the  rest,  there  was  a  small  collection  of  books,  ranged 
on  some  shelves  sunk  into  the  wall  on  either  side  of  the 
drawing-room  mantel-piece ;  and  fastened  against  the 
walls  were  sundry  spoils  of  war,  such  as  swords,  helmets 
and  flint-lock  muskets,  which  the  Major  had  brought 
home  from  his  campaigns.  Their  stern  and  battle-worn 
aspect  contrasted  markedly  with  the  gentle  and  quiet 
demeanor  of  the  dignified  old  lady  who  sat  at  the  little 
table  by  the  window,  with  her  sewing  in  her  hands. 

Mrs.  Lockhart,  as  has  been  already  intimated,  had  been 
a  very  lovely  girl,  and,  allowing  for  the  modifications 
wrought  by  age,  she  had  not,  at  sixty-six,  lost  the  essen- 
tial charm  which  had  distinguished  her  at  sixteen.  Her 
social  success  had,  during  four  London  seasons,  been  es- 
pecially brilliant ;  and,  although  her  fortune  was  at  no 
time  great,  she  had  received  many  highly  eligible  offers 
of  marriage;  and  his  Koyal  Highness  the  Prince  of 
Wales  had  declared  her  to  be  "a  doosid  sweet  little  crea- 
ture." She  had  kept  the  citadel  of  her  heart  through 
many  sieges,  and,  save  on  one  occasion,  it  had  never 
known  the  throb  of  passion  up  to  the  period  of  her  mar- 
riage with  Lieutenant  Lockhart.  But,  two  years  pre- 
vious to  that  event,  being  then  in  her  eighteenth  year, 
she  had  crossed  the  path  of  the  famous  Tom  Grantley, 
who,  at  four-and-thirty  years  of  age,  had  not  yet  passed 
the  meridian  of  his  renown.  He  was  of  Irish  family  and 
birth,  daring,  fascinating,  generous  and  dangerous  with 
both  men  and  women ;  accounted  one  of  the  handsomest 


38  DUST. 

men  in  Europe,  a  fatal  duelist,  a  reckless  yet  fortunate 
gambler,  a  well-nigh  irresistible  wooer  in  love,  and  in 
political  debate  an  orator  of  impetuous  and  captivating 
eloquence.  His  presence  and  bearing  were  lofty  and 
superb ;  and  he  was  one  of  those  whose  fiat  in  manners 
of  fashion  was  law.  When  only  twenty-one  years  old, 
he  had  astonished  society  by  eloping  with  Edith,  the 
eldest  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Seabridge,  a  girl  not  less 
remarkable  for  beauty  than  for  a  spirit  and  courage  which 
were  a  match  for  Tom  Grantley's  own.  The  Earl  had 
never  forgiven  this  wild  marriage,  and  Tom  having 
already  seriously  diminished  his  patrimony  by  extrava- 
gance, the  young  couple  were  fain  to  make  a  more  than 
passing  acquaintance  with  the  seamy  side  of  life.  But 
loss  of  fortune  did  not,  for  them,  mean  loss  either  of 
heart  or  of  mutual  love,  and  during  five  years  of  their 
wedded  existence  there  was  nowhere  to  be  found  a  more 
devoted  husband  than  Tom  Grantley,  or  a  wife  more 
affectionate  and  loyal  than  Lady  Edith.  And  when  she 
died,  leaving  him  an  only  child,  it  was  for  some  time 
a  question  whether  Tom  would  not  actually  break  his 
heart. 

He  survived  his  loss,  however,  and,  having  inherited  a 
fresh  fortune  from  a  relative,  he  entered  the  world  again 
and  dazzled  it  once  more.  But  he  was  never  quite  the 
same  man  as  previously ;  there  was  a  sternness  and  bit- 
terness underlying  his  character  which  had  not  formerly 
been  perceptible.  During  the  ensuing  ten  years  he  was 
engaged  in  no  fewer  than  thirteen  duels,  in  which  it  was 
generally  understood  that  the  honor  of  some  unlucky 
lady  or  other  was  at  stake,  and  in  most  of  these  encoun- 
ters he  either  wounded  or  killed  his  man.  In  his  thir- 
teenth affair  he  was  himself  severely  wounded,  the  rapier 
of  his  antagonist  penetrating  the  right  lung  ;  the  wound 
healed  badly,  and  probably  shortened  his  life  by  many 
years,  though  he  did  not  die  until  after  reaching  the  age 


DUST.  29 

of  forty.  At  the  time  of  his  meeting  with  Fanny  Pell 
he  was  moving  about  London,  a  magnificent  wreck  of  a 
man,  with  great  melancholy  blue  eyes,  a  voice  sonorously 
musical,  a  manner  and  address  of  grave  and  exquisite 
courtesy.  Gazing  upon  that  face,  whose  noble  beauty 
was  only  deepened  by  the  traces  it  bore  of  passion  and 
pain,  Fanny  Pell  needed  not  the  stimulus  of  his  ominous 
reputation  to  yield  him  first  her  awed  homage,  and  after- 
wards her  heart.  But  Tom,  on  this  occasion,  acted  in  a 
manner  which,  we  may  suppose,  did  something  toward 
wiping  away  the  stains  of  his  many  sins.  He  had  been 
attracted  by  the  gentle  charm  of  the  girl,  and  for  a  while 
he  made  no  scruple  about  attracting  her  in  turn.  There 
was  a  maidenly  dignity  and  straightforwardness  about 
Fanny  Pell,  however,  which,  while  it  won  upon  Grantley 
far  more  than  did  the  deliberate  and  self-conscious  fasci- 
nations of  other  women,  inspired  at  the  same  time  an 
unwonted  relenting  in  his  heart.  Feeling  that  here  was 
one  who  might  afford  him  something  vastly  deeper  and 
more  valuable  than  the  idle  pride  of  conquest  and  pos- 
session with  which  he  was  only  too  familiar,  he  bethought 
himself  to  show  his  recognition  of  the  worth  of  that  gift 
in  the  only  way  that  was  open  to  him — by  rejecting  it. 
So,  one  day,  looking  down  from  his  majestic  height  into 
her  lovely  girlish  face,  he  said  with  great  gentleness, 
"My  dear  Miss  Fanny,  it  has  been  very  kind  of  you  to 
show  so  much  goodness  to  a  broken-down  old  scamp  like 
myself,  who  's  old  enough  to  be  your  father ;  and  faith  I 
I  feel  like  a  father  to  ye,  too !  Why,  if  I  'd  had  a  little 
girl  instead  of  a  bo}',  she  might  have  had  just  such  a 
sweet  face  as  yours,  my  dear.  So  you  '11  not  take  it  ill 
of  me — will  ye  now  ! — if  I  just  give  you  a  kiss  on  the 
forehead  before  I  go  away.  Many  a  woman  have  I  seen 
and  forgotten,  who  '11  maybe  not  forget  me  in  a  hurry ; 
but  your  fair  eyes  and  tender  voice  I  never  will  forget, 
for  they  've  done  more  for  me  than  ever  a  father  confessor 


80  DUST. 

of  'em  all !  Good-by,  dear  child ;  and  if  ever  any  man 
would  do  ye  wrong — though,  sure,  no  man  that  has  as 
much  heart  as  a  fish  would  do  that — tell  him  to  'ware 
Tom  Grantley !  and  as  true  as  there  's  a  God  in  heaven, 
and  a  Tom  Grantley  on  earth,  I  '11  put  my  bullet  through 
the  false  skull  of  him.  That 's  all,  my  child :  only,  when 
ye  come  to  marry  some  fine  honest  chap,  as  soon  ye  will, 
don't  forget  to  send  for  your  old  friend  Tom  to  come  and 
dance  at  your  wedding." 

Poor  Fanny  felt  as  if  her  heart  were  being  taken  out 
of  her  innocent  bosom ;  but  she  was  by  nature  so  quiet 
in  all  her  ways  that  all  she  did  was  to  stand  with  her 
glistening  eyes  uplifted  toward  the  splendid  gentleman, 
her  lips  tremulous,  and  her  little  hands  hanging  folded 
before  her.  And  Tom,  who  was  but  human  after  all, 
and  had  begun  to  fear  that  he  had  undertaken  at  least  as 
much  as  he  was  capable  of  performing,  kissed  her,  not 
on  her  forehead,  but  on  her  mouth,  and  therewith  took 
his  leave  hurriedly,  and  without  much  ceremony.  And 
Fanny  never  saw  him  again ;  but  she  never  forgot  him, 
nor  he  her;  though  two  years  afterwards  she  married 
Lieutenant  Lockhart,  and  was  a  faithful  and  loving  wife 
to  him  for  five-and-forty  years.  The  honest  soldier  never 
thought  of  asking  why  she  named  their  first  child  Tom  ; 
and  when  the  child  died,  and  Mrs.  Lockhart  put  on 
mourning,  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  Tom  Grantley 's 
having  died  in  the  same  month  of  the  same  year  had 
deepened  the  folds  of  his  wife's  crape.  But  so  it  is  that 
the  best  of  us  have  our  secrets,  and  those  who  are  nearest 
to  us  suspect  it  not. 

For  the  rest,  Mrs.  Lockhart's  life  was  a  sufficiently  ad- 
venturous and  diversified  one.  War  was  a  busy  and  a 
glorious  profession  in  those  days;  and  the  sweet-faced 
lady  accompanied  her  husband  on  several  of  his  cam- 
paigns, cheerfully  enduring  any  hardships ;  or  awaited 
his  return  at  home,  amidst  the  more  trying  hardships  of 


DUST.  81 

suspense  and  fear.  During  that  time  when  the  nations 
paused  for  a  moment  to  watch  France  cut  off  her  own 
head  as  a  preliminary  to  entering  upon  a  new  life,  Cap- 
tain Lockhart  (as  he  was  then)  and  his  wife  happened  to 
be  on  that  side  of  the  Channel,  and  saw  many  terrible 
historical  sights ;  and  the  Captain,  who  was  no  friend  to 
revolution  in  any  shape,  improved  an  opportunity  for 
doing  a  vital  service  for  a  distinguished  French  nobleman, 
bringing  the  latter  safely  to  England  at  some  risk  to  his 
own  life.  A  year  or  two  later  Mrs.  Lockhart's  second 
child  was  born,  this  time  a  daughter ;  and  then  followed 
a  few  summers  and  winters  of  comparative  calm,  the 
monotony  of  which  was  only  partially  relieved  by  such 
domestic  events  as  the  trial  of  "Warren  Hastings,  the 
acting  of  Kemble  and  the  classic  buffoonery  of  Grimaldi. 
Then  the  star  of  Nelson  began  to  kindle,  and  Captain 
Lockhart,  reading  the  news,  kindled  also,  and  secretly 
glanced  at  his  honorable  sword  hanging  upon  tlie  wall ; 
yet  not  so  secretly  but  that  his  wife  detected  and  inter- 
preted the  glance,  and  kissed  her  littl*  daughter  with  a 
sigh.  And  it  was  not  long  before  Arthur  Wellesley  went 
to  Spain,  and  Captain  Lockhart,  along  with  many  thou- 
sand other  loyal  Englishmen,  followed  him  thither ;  and 
Mrs.  Lockhart  and  little  Marion  stayed  behind  and 
waited  for  news.  The  news  that  chiefly  interested  her 
was  that  her  husband  was  promoted  to  be  Major  for  gal- 
lant conduct  on  the  field  of  battle ;  then  that  he  was 
wounded ;  and,  finally,  that  he  was  coming  home.  Home 
he  came,  accordingly,  a  glorious  invalid ;  but  even  this 
was  not  to  be  the  end  of  trouble  and  glory.  England 
still  had  need  of  her  best  men,  and  Major  Lockhart  was 
among  those  who  were  responsible  for  the  imprisonment 
of  the  Corsican  Ogre  in  St.  Helena.  It  was  between  this 
period  and  the  sudden  storm  that  culminated  at  Water- 
loo, that  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  married  life  of  the 
Lockharts  was  passed.  He  had  saved  a  fair  sum  of 


83  DUST. 

money,  with  part  of  which  he  bought  the  house  in  Ham- 
mersmith ;  and  upon  the  interest  of  the  remainder,  in 
addition  to  his  half-pay,  he  was  able  to  carry  on  existence 
with  comfort  ard  respectability.  Marion  was  no  longer 
the  odd  little  creature  in  short  skirts  that  she  had  been 
when  the  Major  kissed  her  good-by  on  his  departure  for 
the  Peninsular  War,  but  a  well-grown  and  high-spirited 
young  lady,  with  the  features  of  her  father,  and  a  char- 
acter of  her  own.  She  was  passionately  devoted  to  the 
gray-haired  veteran,  and  was  never  tired  of  listening  to 
his  famous  histories ;  of  cooking  his  favorite  dishes ;  of 
cutting  tobacco  for  his  pipe ;  of  sitting  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair,  with  her  arm  about  his  neck,  and  her  cheek  against 
his.  "Marion  has  the  stuff  of  a  soldier  in  her,"  the 
Major  used  to  declare ;  whereupon  the  mother  would 
silently  thank  Providence  that  Marion  was  not  a  boy. 
It  had  only  been  within  the  last  five  or  six  years  that 
Marion  had  really  believed  that  she  was  not,  or  might 
not  become,  a  boy  after  all ;  a  not  uncommon  hallucina- 
tion with  those  who  are  destined  to  become  more  than 
ordinarily  womanly. 

When  the  event  occurred  which  widowed  France  of 
her  Emperor  and  Mrs.  Lockhart  of  her  husband  (much 
the  worst  catastrophe  of  the  two,  in  that  lady's  opinion), 
the  prospects  of  the  household  in  Hammersmith  seemed 
in  no  respect  bright.  The  Major's  half-pay  ceased  with 
the  Major,  and  the  widow's  pension  was  easier  to  get  in 
theory  than  in  practice.  The  interest  of  the  small  capital 
was  not  sufficient  by  itself  to  meet  the  current  expenses, 
though  these  were  conducted  upon  the  most  economical 
scale;  and  Marion,  upon  whose  shoulders  all  domestic 
cares  devolved,  was  presently  at  her  wit's  end  how  to  get 
on.  She  did  all  the  cooking  herself,  and  much  of  the 
washing,  though  Mrs.  Lockhart  strongly  protested  against 
the  latter,  because  Marion's  hands  were  of  remarkably 
fine  shape  and  texture,  being,  in  fact,  her  chief  beauty 


DUSJ.  33 

from  the  conventional  point  of  view,  and  washing  would 
make  them  red  and  ugly.  Marion  affirmed,  with  more 
sincerity  than  is  commonly  predicable  of  such  sayings, 
that  her  hands  were  made  to  use,  and  that  she  did  not 
care  about  them  except  as  they  were  useful;  and  she 
went  on  with  her  washing  in  spite  of  protestations.  But 
even  this  did  not  cover  deficiencies ;  and  then  there  was 
the  wardrobe  question.  Marion,  however,  pointed  out 
that,  in  the  first  place,  she  had  enough  clothes  on  hand 
to  last  her  for  a  long  time,  especially  as  she  had  done 
growing ;  and,  secondly,  that  she  could  easily  manage 
all  necessary  repairs  and  additions  herself.  To  this 
Mrs.  Lockhart  replied  that  young  ladies  must  be  dressed 
like  young  ladies ;  that  good  clothes  were  a  necessary 
tribute  to  good  society ;  and  that  in  order  to  be  happily 
and  genteelly  married,  a  girl  must  make  the  most  of  her 
good  points,  and  subdue  her  bad  ones,  by  the  adornments 
of  costume.  This  was,  no  doubt,  very  true ;  but  mar- 
riage was  a  thing  which  Marion  never  could  hear  pro- 
posed, even  by  her  own  mother,  with  any  patience ;  and, 
as  a  consequence,  to  use  marriage  as  an  argument  in 
support  of  dress,  was  to  insure  the  rejection  of  the  argu- 
ment. Marriage,  said  Marion,  was,  to  begin  with,  a 
thing  to  which  her  whole  character  and  temperament 
were  utterly  opposed.  She  was  herself  too  much  like  a 
man  ever  to  care  for  a  man,  or  not  to  despise  him.  In 
the  next  place,  if  a  girl  had  not  enough  in  her  to  win  an 
honest  man's  love,  in  spite  of  any  external  disadvan- 
tages, then  the  best  thing  for  her  would  be  not  to  be 
loved  at  all.  Love,  this  young  dissenter  would  go  on  to 
observe,  is  something  sacred,  if  it  is  anything ;  and  so 
pure  and  sensitive,  that  it  were  infinitely  better  to  forego 
it  altogether  than  to  run  the  least  risk  of  getting  it  mixed 
up  with  any  temporal  or  expedient  considerations.  And 
since,  she  would  add,  it  seems  to  be  impossible  nowadays 
ever  to  get  love  in  that  unsullied  and  virginal  condition, 


34  DUST. 

she  for  her  part  intended  to  give  it  a  wide  berth  if  ever  it 
came  in  her  way — which  she  was  quite  sure  it  never 
would ;  because  it  takes  two  to  make  a  bargain,  and  not 
only  would  she  never  be  one  of  the  two,  but,  if  she  were 
to  be  so,  she  thanked  God  that  she  had  so  ugly  a  face 
and  so  unconciliating  a  temper  that  no  man  would  ven- 
ture to  put  up  with  her ;  unless,  perhaps,  she  were"  pos- 
sessed of  five  or  ten  thousand  a  year;  from  which 
misfortune  it  was  manifestly  the  beneficent  purpose  ol 
Providence  to  secure  her.  The  upshot  of  this  diatribe 
was  that  she  did  not  care  how  shabby  and  ungenteel  her 
clothes  were,  so  long  as  they  were  clean  and  covered  her ; 
and  that  even  if  she  could  afford  to  hire  a  dressmaker, 
she  would  still  prefer  to  do  her  making  and  mending  her- 
self ;  because  no  one  so  well  as  herself  could  comprehend 
what  she  wanted. 

"You  should  not  call  yourself  ugly,  Marion,"  her 
mother  would  reply:  "at  any  rate,  you  should  not  think 
yourself  ugly.  A  girl  generally  appears  to  others  like 
what  she  is  in  the  habit  of  thinking  herself  to  be.  Half 
the  women  who  are  called  beauties  are  not  really  beauti- 
ful ;  but  they  have  persuaded  themselves  that  they  are 
so,  and  then  other  people  believe  it.  People  in  this 
world  so  seldom  take  the  pains  to  think  or  to  judge  for 
themselves  ;  they  take  what  is  given  to  them.  Besides, 
to  think  a  thing,  really  does  a  great  deal  toward  making 
it  come  true.  If  you  think  you  are  pretty,  you  will  grow 
prettier  every  day.  And  if  you  keep  on  talking  about 
being  ugly  .  .  .  You  have  a  very  striking,  intelligent 
face,  my  dear,  and  your  smile  is  very  charming  indeed." 

Marion  laughed  scornfully.  "Believing  a  lie  is  not  the 
way  to  invent  truth,"  she  said.  "All  the  imagination 
in  England  won't  make  me  different  from  what  I  am. 
Whether  I  am  ugly  or  not,  I  'm  not  a  fool,  and  I  shan't 
give  anybody  the  right  to  call  me  one  by  behaving  as  if 
I  fancied  I  were  somebody  else.  I  am  very  well  as  I 


DUST.  35 

am,"  she  continued,  wringing  out  a  towel  and  spreading 
it  out  on  the  clothes-horse  to  dry.  "I  should  be  too 
jealous  and  suspicious  to  make  a  man  happy,  and  I  don't 
mean  to  try  it.  You  don't  understand  that ;  but  you 
were  made  to  be  married,  and  I  wasn't,  and  that 's  the 
reason." 

Nevertheless,  the  income  continued  to  be  insufficient, 
and  inroads  continued  to  be  made  on  the  capital,  much  to 
the  friendly  distress  of  Sir  Francis  Bendibow,  the  head  of 
the  great  banking-house  of  Bendibow  Brothers,  to  whose 
care  the  funds  of  the  late  Major  Lockhart  had  been  in- 
trusted "The  first  guinea  you  withdraw  from  your  capital, 
my  dear  madam,"  he  had  assured  Mrs.  Lockhart,  with  his 
usual  manner  of  impressive  courtesy,  "represents  your 
first  step  on  the  road  that  leads  to  bankruptcy."  The 
widow  admitted  the  truth  of  the  maxim;  but  misfor- 
tunes are  not  always  curable  in  proportion  as  they  are 
undeniable;  though  that  seemed  to  be  Sir  Francis' 
assumption.  Mrs.  Lockhart  began  to  suffer  from  her 
anxieties.  Marion  saw  this,  and  was  in  despair.  "What 
a  good-for-nothing  thing  a  woman  is  I"  she  exclaimed 
bitterly.  "If  I  were  a  man  I  would  earn  our  living." 
She  understood  something  of  music,  and  sang  and  played 
with  great  refinement  and  expression :  but  her  talent  in 
this  direction  was  natural,  not  acquired,  and  she  was  not 
sufficiently  grounded  in  the  science  of  the  accomplish- 
ment to  have  any  chance  of  succeeding  as  a  teacher. 
What  was  to  be  done  ? 

"What  do  you  say  to  selling  the  house  and  grounds, 
and  going  into  lodgings  ?"  she  said  one  day. 

"It  would  help  us  for  a  time,  but  not  for  always,"  the 
mother  replied.  "Lodgings  are  so  expensive." 

"  The  house  is  a  great  deal  bigger  than  we  need,"  said 
Marion. 

"We  should  be  no  better  off  if  it  were  smaller,"  said 
Mrs.  Lockhart. 


86  DUST. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Suddenly  Marion  jumped  to 
her  feet,  while  the  light  of  inspiration  brightened  over 
her  face.  "Why,  mother,  what  is  to  prevent  us  letting 
our  spare  rooms  to  lodgers  ?"  she  cried  out. 

"Oh,  that  would  be  impossible  !"  returned  the  mother 
in  dismay.  "  The  rooms  that  your  dear  father  used  to 
live  in  1" 

"  That  is  what  we  must  do,"  answered  Marion  firmly ; 
and  in  the  end,  as  we  have  seen,  that  was  what  they  did. 


CHAPTEE  V. 

THE  third  of  May  passed  away,  and,  beyond  the  hang- 
ing up  in  the  window  of  the  card  with  "Lodgings  to 
Let "  written  on  it,  nothing  new  had  happened  in  the 
house  at  Hammersmith.  But  the  exhibition  of  that  card 
had  been  to  Mrs.  Lockhart  an  event  of  such  momentous 
and  tragic  importance,  that  she  did  not  know  whether 
she  were  most  astonished,  relieved,  or  disappointed  that 
it  had  produced  no  perceptible  effect  upon  the  outer 
universe. 

"It  seems  to  be  of  no  use,"  she  said  to  her  daughter, 
while  the  latter  was  assisting  her  in  her  morning  toilet. 
"  Had  we  not  better  take  down  the  card,  and  try  to  think 
of  something  else.  Couldn't  we  keep  half-a-dozen  fowls, 
and  sell  the  eggs  ?" 

"  How  faint-hearted  you  are,  mother  1" 

"Besides,  even  if  somebody  were  to  pass  here  who 
wanted  lodgings,  they  could  never  think  of  looking 
through  the  gate  ;  and  if  they  did,  I  doubt  whether  they 
could  see  the  card." 

"I  have  thought  of  that;  and  when  I  got  up  this 
morning  I  tied  the  card  to  the  gate  itself.  Nobody  can 
fail  to  see  it  there." 

"Oh,  Marion  I  It  is  almost  as  if  we  were  setting  up  a 
shop." 

"Everybody  is  more  or  less  a  shopkeeper,"  replied 
Marion  philosophically.  "  Some  people  sell  rank,  others 
beauty,  others  cleverness,  others  their  souls  to  the  devil : 
we  might  do  worse  than  sell  house-room  to  those  who 
want  it." 

ST 


88  DUST. 

"Oh,  my  dear!" 

"Bless  your  dear  heart  I  you'll  think  nothing  of  it, 
once  the  lodgers  are  in  the  house,"  rejoined  the  girl,  kiss- 
ing her  mother's  cheek. 

They  went  down  to  breakfast :  it  was  a  pleasant  morn- 
ing ;  the  sky  was  a  tender  blue,  and  the  eastern  sunshine 
shot  through  the  dark  limbs  of  the  cedar  of  Lebanon,  and 
fell  in  cheerful  patches  on  the  floor  of  the  dining-room, 
and  sent  a  golden  shaft  across  the  white  breakfast  cloth, 
and  sparkled  on  the  silver  teapot — the  same  teapot  in 
which  Fanny  Pell  had  once  made  tea  for  handsome  Tom 
Grantley  in  the  year  1768.  Marion  was  in  high  spirits : 
at  all  events,  she  adopted  a  lightsome  tone,  in  contrast 
to  her  usual  somewhat  grave  preoccupation.  She  was 
determined  to  make  her  mother  smile. 

"This  is  our  last  solitary  breakfast,"  she  declared. 
"To-morrow  morning  we  shall  sit  down  four  to  table. 
There  will  be  a  fine  old  gentleman  for  me,  and  a  hand- 
some young  man  for  you ;  for  anybody  would  take  you 
to  be  the  younger  of  us  two.  The  old  gentleman  will  be 
impressed  with  my  masculine  understanding  and  know- 
ledge of  the  world ;  we  shall  talk  philosophy,  and  his- 
tory, and  politics ;  he  will  finally  confess  to  a  more  than 
friendly  interest  in  me ;  but  I  shall  stop  him  there,  and 
remind  him  that,  for  persons  of  our  age,  it  is  most  pru- 
dent not  to  marry.  He  will  allow  himself  to  be  persuaded 
on  that  point ;  but  he  has  a  vast  fortune,  and  he  will 
secretly  make  his  will  in  my  favor.  Your  young  gentle- 
man will  be  of  gentle  blood,  a  sentimentalist  and  an 
artist ;  his  father  will  have  been  in  love  with  you ;  the 
son  will  have  the  good  taste  to  inherit  the  passion ;  he 
will  entreat  you  to  let  him  paint  your  portrait ;  but,  if  he 
becomes  too  pressing  in  his  attentions,  I  shall  teel  it  my 
duty  to  take  him  aside,  and  admonish  him  like  a  mother. 
He  will  be  so  mortally  afraid  of  me,  that  I  shall  have  no 


DUST.  89 

difficulty  in  managing  him.  In  the  course  of  a  year  or 
two—" 

"Is  not  that  somebody  ?    I  'm  sure  I  heard — " 

"La,  mother,  don't  look  so  scared  1"  cried  Marion, 
laughing,  but  coloring  vividly:  "it  can't  be  anything 
worse  than  an  executioner  with  a  warrant  for  our  arrest. " 
She  turned  in  her  chair,  and  looked  through  the  window 
and  across  the  grass-plot  to  the  gate. 

"  There  is  somebody — two  gentlemen— just  as  I  said: 
one  old  and  the  other  young." 

"Are  you  serious,  Marion?"  said  the  widow,  inter- 
lacing her  fingers  across  her  breast,  while  her  lips  trem- 
bled. 

"They  are  reading  the  card:  the  old  one  is  holding  a 
pair  of  gold-rimmed  eye-glasses  across  his  nose.  Now 
they  are  looking  through  the  gate  at  the  house :  the 
young  one  is  saying  something,  and  the  other  is  smiling 
and  taking  snuif.  The  young  one  has  a  small  head,  but 
his  eyes  are  big,  and  he  has  broad  shoulders :  he  looks 
like  an  artist,  just  as  I  said.  The  old  one  stoops  a  little 
and  is  ugly ;  but  I  like  his  face — it 's  honest.  He  doesn't 
seem  to  be  very  rich,  though ;  his  coat  is  very  old-fash- 
ioned. Oh,  they  are  going  away  I" 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad  I"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lockhart  fer- 
vently. 

"No,  they  are  coming  back — they  are  coming  in:  the 
young  one  is  opening  the  gate.  Here  they  come :  that 
young  fellow  is  certainly  very  handsome.  There  I" 

A  double  knock  sounded  through  the  house. 

"  Say  we  are  not  at  home — oh,  they  must  not  come  in  I 
Tell  them  to  call  another  day.  Perhaps  they  may  not 
have  called  about  the  lodgings,"  faltered  the  widow,  in 
agitation. 

Marion  said  nothing ;  being,  to  tell  the  truth,  engaged 
in  screwing  her  own  courage  to  the  sticking-point.  After 
a  pause  of  a  few  moments  she  marched  to  the  door,  with 


40  DUST. 

a  step  so  measured  and  deliberate  as  to  suggest  stern 
desperation  rather  than  easy  indifference.  Passing  into 
the  hall,  and  closing  the  door  behind  her,  she  threw  open 
the  outer  door  and  faced  the  two  intruders. 

The  elder  gentleman  stood  forward  as  spokesman. 
"Good  morning  to  you,"  he  said,  glancing  observantly 
at  the  young  woman's  erect  figure.  "  You  have  lodgings 
to  let,  I  believe  ?" 

"Yes." 

"This  gentleman  and  I  are  in  search  of  lodgings.  Is 
the  accommodation  sufficient  for  two  ?  We  should  re- 
quire separate  apartments." 

"  You  can  come  in  and  see."  She  made  way  for  them 
to  enter,  and  conducted  them  into  the  sitting-room  on 
the  left. 

"You  had  better  speak  to  your  mistress,  my  dear,  or 
to  your  master,  if  he  is  at  home,  and  say  we  would  like 
to  speak  to  him."  This  was  said  by  the  younger  man. 

Marion  looked  at  him  with  a  certain  glow  of  fierceness. 
"My  father  is  not  living,"  she  said.  " There  is  no  need 
to  disturb  my  mother.  I  can  show  you  over  the  house 
myself." 

"  I  ask  your  pardon  sincerely.  It  has  always  been  mj 
foible  to  speak  before  I  look.  I  took  it  for  granted — " 

"I  don't  suppose  you  intended  any  harm,  sir,"saia 
Marion  coldly.  "  If  we  could  have  afforded  a  servant  to 
attend  the  door,  we  should  not  have  been  forced  to  take 
lodgers."  She  turned  to  the  elder  man  and  added :  "  We 
have  three  vacant  rooms  on  the  floor  above,  and  a  smaller 
room  on  the  top  story.  You  might  divide  the  accommo- 
dation to  suit  yourselves.  You  can  come  up  stairs,  if 
you  like,  and  see  whether  they  would  suit  you." 

The  gentlemen  assented,  and  followed  Marion  over  the 
upper  part  of  the  house.  The  elder  man  examined  the 
rooms  and  the  furniture  with  care ;  but  the  younger  kept 
his  regards  fixed  rather  upon  the  guide  than  upon  what 


DUST.  41 

she  showed  them.  Her  gait,  the  movement  of  her  arms, 
the  carriage  of  her  head,  her  tone  and  manner  of  speak- 
ing, all  were  subjected  to  his  scrutiny.  He  said  little, 
but  took  care  that  what  he  did  say  should  be  of  a  cour- 
teous and  conciliatory  nature.  The  elder  man  asked 
questions  pleasantly,  and  seemed  pleased  with  the  answers 
Marion  gave  him.  Within  a  short  time  the  crudity  and 
harshness  of  the  first  part  of  the  interview  began  to 
vanish,  and  the  relations  of  the  three  became  more 
genial  and  humane.  There  was  here  and  there  a  smile, 
and  once,  at  least,  a  laugh.  Marion,  who  was  always 
quick  to  recognize  the  humorous  aspect  of  a  situation, 
already  foresaw  herself  making  her  mother  merry  with 
an  account  of  this  adventure,  when  the  heroes  of  it 
should  have  gone  away.  The  party  returned  to  the  sit- 
ting-room in  a  very  good  humor  with  one  another,  there- 
fore. 

"For  my  part,  I  am  more  than  satisfied,"  remarked 
the  elder  gentleman,  taking  out  his  snuff-box.  "  Do  you 
agree  with  me,  Mr.  Lancaster  ?" 

Lancaster  did  not  reply.  He  was  gazing  with  great 
interest  at  the  oil  portrait  that  hung  on  the  wall.  At 
length  he  turned  to  Marion  and  said :  "  Is  that — may  I 
ask  who  that  is  ?" 

"My  father." 

""Was  he  a  major  in  the  97th  regiment  ?" 

"  Did  you  know  him  ?" 

"I  knew  Major  Lockhart.  He — of  course  you  know — 
fell  at  Waterloo." 

"We  know  that  he  was  killed  there,  but  we  have  no 
particulars,"  said  Marion,  her  voice  faltering,  and  her 
eyes  full  of  painful  eagerness. 

"And  you  are  Miss  Lockhart — the  Marion  he  spoke 
of?" 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  she  said,  in  a  thick  voice,  and  turn- 
ing pale.  She  walked  to  the  window,  and  pressed  her 


42  DUST. 

forehead  against  the  glass.  Presently  she  turned  round 
and  said,  "  I  will  call  my  mother,  sir.  She  must  hear 
what  you  have  to  tell  us,"  and  left  the  room. 

"A  strange  chance  this!"  remarked  the  elder  man 
thoughtfully. 

"She's  a  fine  girl,  and  looks  like  her  father,"  said 
Lancaster. 

In  a  few  moments  Marion  re-entered  with  her  mother. 
Mrs.  Lockhart  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  two 
men  with  wide-open  eyes  and  flushed  cheeks:  a  slight 
tremor  pervaded  the  hand  with  which  she  mechanically 
smoothed  the  thick  braids  of  gray  hair  that  covered  her 
graceful  head.  She  moved  with  an  uncertain  step  to  a 
chair,  and  said  in  a  voice  scarcely  audible,  "  Will  you  be 
seated,  gentlemen  ?  My  daughter  tells  me  that  you — one 
of  you —  " 

"The  honor  belongs  to  me,  madam,"  said  Lancaster, 
with  deep  respect  and  with  some  evidence  of  emotion, 
"of  having  seen  your  husband  the  day  before  his  death. 
He  mentioned  both  of  you ;  he  said  no  man  in  the  army 
had  had  so  happy  a  life  as  he — such  a  wife  and  such  a 
daughter.  I  shall  remember  other  things  that  he  said, 
by-and-by ;  but  this  meeting  has  come  upon  me  by  sur- 
prise, and The  day  after  the  battle  I  rode  out 

to  the  field  and  found  him.  He  had  fallen  most  gallantly 
— I  need  not  tell  you  that — at  a  moment  such  as  all  brave 
soldiers  would  wish  to  meet  death  in.  He  was  wounded 
through  the  heart,  and  must  have  died  instantly.  I  as- 
sumed the  privilege  of  bringing  his  body  to  Brussels,  and 
of  seeing  it  buried  there."  Here  he  paused,  for  both  the 
women  were  crying,  and,  in  sympathy  with  them,  his 
own  voice  was  getting  husky.  The  elder  man  sat  with 
his  face  downcast,  and  his  hands  folded  between  his 
knees. 

"Is  the  grave  marked?"  he  suddenly  asked,  looking 
up  at  Lancaster. 


DUST.  48 

"  Yes ;  the  name,  and  the  regiment,  and  the  date.  I 
brought  something  from  him,"  he  went  on,  addressing 
Marion,  as  being  the  stronger  of  the  two  women;  "it 
was  fastened  by  a  gold  chain  round  his  neck,  and  he  wore 
it  underneath  his  coat.  You  would  have  received  it  long 
ago  if  I  had  known  where  to  find  you."  He  held  out  to 
her,  as  he  spoke,  a  small  locket  with  its  chain.  Marion 
took  it,  and  held  it  pressed  between  her  hands,  not 
saying  anything.  After  a  moment,  the  two  gentlemen 
exchanged  a  glance,  and  got  up.  The  elder  gentleman 
approached  Marion  with  great  gentleness  of  manner; 
and,  when  she  arose  and  attempted  to  speak,  he  put  his 
hand  kindly  on  her  shoulder. 

"I  had  a  little  girl  once,  who  loved  me,"  he  said. 
"You  must  let  me  go  without  ceremony  now ;  to-morrow 
I  shall  ask  leave  to  come  back  and  complete  our  arrange- 
ments. God  bless  you,  my  child  I  Are  you  going  with 
me,  Mr.  Lancaster  ?" 

"  Shall  you  come  back  to-morrow,  too  ?"  said  Marion 
to  the  latter. 

"Indeed  I  will." 

"Then  I  won't  try  to  thank  you  now,"  she  replied. 
But  their  eyes  met  for  a  moment,  and  Lancaster  did  not 
feel  that  the  recognition  of  his  service  had  been  post- 
poned. 

They  were  going  out  without  attempting  to  take  leave 
of  Mrs.  Lockhart ;  but  she  rose  up  from  her  chair  and 
courtseyed  to  them  with  a  grace  and  dignity  worthy  of 
Fanny  Pell.  And  then,  yielding  to  an  impulse  that  was 
better  than  the  best  high  breeding,  the  gentle  widow 
stepped  quickly  up  to  Lancaster,  and  put  her  arms  about 
his  neck,  and  kissed  him. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  great  banking-house  of  Bendibow  Brothers,  like 
many  other  great  things,  had  a  modest  beginning.  At 
the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century  there  was  a  cer- 
tain Mr.  Abraham  Bendibow  in  London,  who  kept  a 
goldsmith's  shop  in  the  neighborhood  of  Whitechapel, 
and  supplemented  the  profits  of  that  business  by  lending 
money  at  remunerative  interest,  on  the  security  of  cer- 
tain kinds  of  personal  property.  To  his  customers  and 
casual  acquaintances  he  was  merely  a  commonplace, 
keen,  cautious,  hard-headed  and  hard-hearted  man  of 
business ;  and,  perhaps,  till  as  lately  as  the  second  decade 
of  the  century,  this  might  have  fairly  represented  his  own 
opinion  of  himself.  Nevertheless,  there  lurked  in  his 
character,  in  addition  to  the  qualities  above  mentioned, 
two  others  which  are  by  no  means  commonplace,  namely, 
imagination  and  enterprise.  They  might  have  lurked 
there  unsuspected  till  the  day  of  his  death,  but  for  the 
intervention  of  circumstances — to  make  use  of  a  conve- 
nient word  of  which  nobody  has  ever  explained  the  real 
meaning.  But,  in  1711,  that  ingenious  nobleman,  the 
Earl  of  Oxford,  being  animated  by  a  praiseworthy  desire 
to  relieve  a  nightmare  of  a  half-score  million  sterling  or 
so  of  indebtedness  which  was  then  oppressing  the  govern- 
ment, hit  upon  that  famous  scheme  which  has  since 
entered  into  history  under  the  name  of  the  South  Sea 
Bubble.  The  scheme  attracted  Bendibow's  attention, 
and  he  studied  it  for  some  time  in  his  usual  undemon- 
strative but  thoroughgoing  manner.  Whenever  occasion 
offered  he  discussed  it,  in  an  accidental  and  indifferent 


DUST.  45 

way,  with  all  kinds  Of  people.  At  the  end  of  two  or 
three  years  he  probably  understood  more  about  the  affair 
than  any  other  man  in  London.  Whether  he  believed 
that  it  was  a  substance  or  a  bubble  will  never  be  known 
to  any  one  except  himself.  All  that  can  be  affirmed  is 
that  he  minded  his  own  business,  and  imparted  his 
opinion  to  no  one.  The  opinion  gradually  gained  ground 
that  he  shared  the  views  of  Sir  Kobert  Walpole,  who,  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  was  almost  the  only  opposer  of 
the  South  Sea  scheme.  So  matters  went  on  until  the 
year  1720. 

It  was  at  this  period  that  the  excitement  and  convul- 
sion began.  The  stock  had  risen  to  330.  Abraham 
Bendibow  sat  in  his  shop,  and  preserved  an  unruffled 
demeanor.  The  stock  fell  to  below  300 ;  but  Abraham 
kept  his  strong  box  locked,  and  went  about  his  business 
as  usual.  Stock  mounted  again  to  340 ;  but  nobody  per- 
ceived any  change  in  Mr.  Bendibow.  For  all  any  one 
could  see,  he  might  never  have  heard  of  the  South  Sea 
scheme  in  his  life.  And  yet  a  great  fortune  was  even 
then  in  his  grasp,  had  he  chosen  to  stretch  out  his  hand 
to  take  it. 

Weeks  and  months  passed  away,  and  the  stock  kept  on 
rising.  Often  it  would  tremble  and  fall,  but  after  each 
descent  it  climbed  higher  than  before.  It  became  the 
one  absorbing  topic  of  conversation  with  everybody 
except  Abraham  Bendibow,  who  composedly  preferred 
to  have  no  concern  in  the  matter :  it  was  not  for  small 
tradesmen  like  him  to  meddle  with  such  large  enterprises. 
And,  meanwhile,  the  stock  rose  and  rose,  and  rose  higher 
still,  until  men  lost  their  heads,  and  other  men  made 
colossal  fortunes,  and  everybody  expected  to  secure  at 
least  ten  thousand  a  year.  One  day  the  stock  touched 
B90,  and  then  people  held  their  breath  and  turned  pale, 
&nd  the  most  sanguine  said  in  their  hearts  that  this  was 
eupernatural  and  could  not  last. 


46  DUST. 

On  that  day  Abraham  Bendibow  went  into  his  private 
room,  and  locked  the  door ;  and  taking  pen  and  paper  he 
made  a  calculation.  After  having  made  it  he  sat  for  a 
long  time  gazing  at  the  little  array  of  figures  in  seeming 
abstraction.  Then  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  with  one 
hand  in  the  pocket  of  his  small-clothes,  while  with  the 
other  he  slowly  rubbed  his  chin  at  intervals.  By  degrees 
he  began  to  breathe  more  quickly,  and  his  eyes  became 
restless.  He  arose  from  his  chair  and  paced  up  and  down 
the  room.  "Eight  hundred  and  ninety,"  he  kept  mut- 
tering to  himself,  over  and  over,  again.  The  strong  box 
stood  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  and  toward  this  Mr. 
Bendibow  often  looked.  Once  he  approached  it,  and  laid 
his  hand  upon  the  lid ;  then  he  turned  away  from  it  with 
an  abrupt  movement,  compressing  his  lips  and  shaking 
his  head.  He  resumed  his  pacing  up  and  down  the  room, 
his  head  bent  down  in  deep  and  troubled  thought.  At 
last  an  idea  seemed  to  strike  him.  He  unlocked  and 
opened  the  door  of  the  room,  and  called  in  a  harsh,  pe- 
remptory tone : 

"Jacob!" 

A  young  man  appeared,  about  twenty  years  of  age.  In 
features  he  resembled  the  other,  but  his  face  was  not  so 
broad,  nor  was  his  air  so  commanding.  Mr.  Bendibow 
motioned  to  him  with  his  head  to  enter.  He  then  seated 
himself  in  his  chair,  and  eyed  Jacob  for  a  while  in  silence. 
Jacob  stood  with  his  head  stretched  forward,  and  slowly 
chafing  the  back  of  one  hand  with  the  palm  of  the  other, 
while  his  countenance  wore  an  expression  of  deferential 
inquiry. 

"Jacob,"  said  the  elder,  "what  is  doing  out-doors  to- 
day— eh '?" 

"The  same  as  usual,  father,"  answered  Jacob,  tenta- 
tively, as  being  in  some  doubt  what  the  question  might 
portend.  "There  is  plenty  of  excitement:  same  as 
usual." 


DUST.  47 

"  Excitement ;  on  what  account  ?" 

"Well,  sir,  the  stocks  :  terrible  speculation :  madness — 
nothing  less.  There  was  a  fellow,  sir,  this  very  morning, 
got  out  a  prospectus  of  a  company  for  prosecuting  a  cer- 
tain undertaking  not  at  present  to  be  revealed :  capital 
one  million,  in  ten  thousand  shares  of  one  hundred  each : 
deposit  two  pounds,  entitling  to  one  hundred  per  annum, 
per  share :  particulars  next  week,  and  balance  of  subscrip- 
tion week  after  next.  Frightful,  upon  my  soul,  sir  1" 

"  Has  anybody  bitten  ?" 

"A  good  many  have  been  bitten,"  returned  Jacob, 
with  a  dry  giggle.  "Three  thousand  pounds  were  sub- 
scribed in  three  hours ;  and  then  the  fellow  decamped. 
Madness,  upon  my  life  !" 

"You  would  not  advise  having  anything  to  do  with 
such  speculations,  eh,  Jacob  ?" 

"  Me  ?  Bless  my  soul,  not  I  indeed !"  exclaimed  Jacob 
with  energy. 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  In  the  first  place,  because  you  have  expressed  disap- 
proval of  it,  father,"  replied  the  virtuous  Jacob.  "And 
I  may  flatter  myself  I  have  inherited  something  of  your 
sound  judgment." 

"  So  you  have  never  speculated  at  all — eh,  Jacob  ? 
Never  at  all,  eh  ?  Never  bought  a  shilling's  worth  of 
stock  of  any  kind  in  your  life — eh  ?  The  truth,  Jacob !" 

The  last  words  were  pronounced  in  so  stern  a  tone  that 
Jacob  changed  color,  turning  his  eyes  first  to  one  side  of 
his  father's  point-blank  gaze,  and  then  to  the  other.  At 
last,  however,  their  glances  met,  and  then  Jacob  said : 

"I  might  not  be  able  to  swear  to  a  shilling  or  so, 
neither — " 

"Nor  to  a  guinea :  nor  to  ten,  nor  to  fifty — eh,  Jacob  ?" 

"Not  more  than  fifty ;  upon  my  soul,  sir,"  said  Jacob, 
laying  his  hands  upon  his  heart  in  earnest  deprecation. 
"Not  a  penny,  sir,  upon  my  word  of  honor  I" 


48  DUST. 

"What  of  the  fifty  then— eh  ?" 

"It  was  in  South  Sea :  I  bought  at  400,"  said  Jacob. 

"  At  400  ?    And  what  is  it  to-day  ? ' ' 

"  Eight  hundred  and  ninety  it  was  this  morning,"  said 
Jacob. . 

"Was  this  morning?  Do  you  mean  it  has  fallen 
since  ?" 

"It  has  indeed,  sir.  They've  all  been  selling  like 
demons  ;  and  it 's  below  eight  hundred  at  this  moment." 

"  What  have  you  done — eh  ?" 

"Sold  out  the  first  thing,  sir,  at  four  hundred  and 
ninety  per  cent,  clear  profit,"  replied  Jacob,  something 
of  complacency  mingling  with  the  anxious  deference  of 
his  tone. 

"Therefore,  instead  of  fifty  pounds,  you  now  have 
three  hundred  or  so  ?" 

"Two  hundred,  ninety  and  five,  sir,"  said  the  youth 
modestly. 

"Jacob,  you  are  a  fool !" 

"Sir?" 

"You  have  thrown  your  money  away.  You  are  a 
fool  I  You  are  timid  I  You  have  neither  the  genius,  the 
steadiness,  nor  the  daring  to  manage  and  to  multiply  a 
great  fortune.  Were  you  like  myself,  Jacob,  you  or 
your  children  might  have  a  hand  in  controlling  the  des- 
tinies of  England,  and  thus  of  the  world.  You  have 
behaved  like  a  pettifogger  and  a  coward,  Jacob.  I  do 
not  ask  you  to  be  honest.  No  man  is  honest  when  he  is 
sure  that  dishonesty  will  enrich  him.  But,  whatever 
you  are,  I  ask  you  to  be  that  thing  with  all  your  soul. 
Be  great,  or  be  nothing  I  Only  fools  and  cowards  patter 
about  morality  I  I  tell  you  that  success  is  the  only  mo- 
rality." Here  Mr.  Bendibow,  who  had  spoken  with 
calmness,  though  by  no  means  without  emphasis,  checked 
himself,  and  putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket  drew  forth  a 
key  which  he  handed  to  his  son.  "Open  the  strong 


DUST.  49 

box,"  he  said,  "and  take  out  the  papers  you  will  find 
in  it." 

Jacob  did  as  he  was  bid.  But  his  first  glance  at  the 
papers  made  him  start  and  stare  in  a  bewildered  manner 
at  the  unmoved  countenance  of  his  father.  He  then 
reverted  to  the  papers ;  but,  after  a  close  inspection  of 
them,  he  seemed  only  more  bewildered  than  before." 

"  This  is  South  Sea  stock,  sir,"  he  said  at  length. 

"Well,  Jacob?"  said  Mr.  Bendibow,  composedly. 

"  Nigh  on  fifteen  thousand  pounds'  worth  at  par,  sir." 

"Yes,  Jacob." 

"I  see  how  it  is;  you  have  been  buying  for  some 
one  !"  broke  out  Jacob,  energetically. 

"Evidently,  Jacob." 

There  was  a  pause.  "On  commission,  of  course?" 
hazarded  Jacob. 

"No  commission  at  all,  Jacob." 

Jacob's  jaws  relaxed.  "  No  commission  ?  Whom  did 
you  buy  for,  sir  ?" 

"For  myself,  Jacob." 

Jacob  dropped  the  papers  on  the  table,  and  leaned 
against  it  dizzily ;  his  breath  forsook  him.  Finally,  Mr. 
Bendibow  said :  "Jacob,  you  are  even  more  a  fool  than  I 
took  you  for." 

"But  how  .  .  .  When  did  you  buy,  sir?"  faltered 
Jacob. 

"  Eight  or  nine  years  ago,"  Mr.  Bendibow  replied. 

"  Then  .  .  .  why,  then  you  must  have  got  it  at  under 
two  hundred  ?" 

"Eighty  to  a  hundred  and  twenty,"  said  Mr.  Bendi- 
bow, curtly. 

There  was  another  pause.  Jacob  moistened  his  lips 
and  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead.  Suddenly  he- 
screamed  out,  "But  you  haven't  sold,  sir  I" 

"Well,  Jacob?" 

"  If  you'd  sold  this  morning  you  'd  have  been  worth  a 


50  DUST. 

hundred  and  thirty-five  thousand  sterling — one  hundred 
and  thirty-five  thousand  I" 

"Very  nearly,  Jacob." 

"And  stock  is  falling:  you've  lost  fifteen  thousand 
since  ten  o'clock  !"  shouted  Jacob,  now  quite  beside  him- 
self. He  seized  the  papers  again,  and  made  for  the  door. 
There  he  was  stopped  by  an  iron  grasp  on  his  arm,  and 
Mr.  Bendibow  said,  in  a  voice  as  uncompromising  as  his 
grasp,  "  Stay  where  you  are  !" 

"But  it's  not  too  late,  sir;  we'll  clear  a  hundred 
thousand  yet,"  pleaded  Jacob,  in  agony. 

"Be  silent,  and  hear  what  I  say  to  you.  "When  I 
bought  this  stock,  and  paid  fifteen  thousand  pounds  for 
it,  I  made  up  my  mind  either  to  lose  all  or  to  win  ten 
times  my  stake.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  my  fortune 
should  be  either  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  sterling, 
or  nothing.  Through  nine  years  I  have  held  to  my  pur- 
pose. Until  this  hour  no  one  has  known  that  I  have 
risked  a  penny.  Men  have  made  fortunes — I  have  seen 
it,  and  held  to  my  purpose,  and  held  my  tongue.  Men 
have  gone  mad  with  success  or  failure ;  I  am  the  same 
to-day  that  I  was  ten  years  ago.  This  morning  stock 
reached  eight  hundred  and  ninety ;  a  thousand  fools  like 
you  sold,  and  now  it  is  falling,  and  will  fall  yet  more. 
But  it  is  my  belief  that  it  will  rise  again.  It  will  rise  to 
one  thousand.  When  it  touches  one  thousand,  I  sell; 
not  before,  and  not  afterward.  I  shall  win  one  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  pounds.  With  that  money  I  shall 
found  a  banking-house.  It  will  be  known  as  the  banking- 
house  of  Bendibow  and  Son.  If  you  and  your  children 
were  men  like  myself,  the  house  of  Bendibow  and  Son 
would  become  one  of  the  great  Powers  of  Europe. 
Where  now  we  have  ten  thousand,  in  a  century  we 
should  have  a  million.  But  you  are  not  such  a  man  as  I 
am.  Your  children  and  your  great-grandchildren  will 
not  be  such  men  as  I  am.  But  I  have  done  what  I  could. 


DUST.  51 

I  have  written  down  in  a  book  ^he  rules  which  you  are  to 
obey — you,  and  all  your  descendants.  If  you  disobey 
them,  my  curse  will  be  upon  you,  and  you  will  fail.  I  am 
not  young ;  and  no  man  knows  the  day  when  he  shall 
die :  therefore  I  have  called  you,  Jacob,  and  made  this 
known  to  you  now;  because  a  day  or  a  month  hence 
might  be  too  late.  You  are  not  such  a  man  as  I  am ; 
but  any  man  can  obey  ;  and  if  you  obey  the  rules  that  I 
have  written  you  will  not  fail.  Let  those  rules  be  written 
upon  your  heart,  and  upon  the  hearts  of  your  children's 
children,  even  unto  the  latest  generation.  There  is  no 
power  in  this  world  so  great  as  a  great  fortune,  greatly 
used ;  but  a  fool  may  lose  that  power  in  a  day." 

Mr.  Bendibow  had  spoken  these  words  standing  erect, 
and  with  his  eyes  fixed  steadfastly  upon  his  son ;  and  his 
tone  was  stern,  solemn  and  impressive.  He  now  said,  in 
another  tone:  " Put  the  papers  back  in  the  strong  box, 
Jacob,  and  do  not  speak  of  them  again,  either  to  me  or 
to  any  other  person,  until  stock  is  at  one  thousand.  Come 
1o  me  then,  and  not  before.  Now  go." 

"  But,  father,  what  if  stock  never  reaches  one  thou- 
sand ?"  suggested  Jacob,  timidly. 

"  Then  I  shall  have  lost  fifteen  thousand  pounds,"  re- 
turned Mr.  Bendibow,  composedly  resuming  his  seat  in 
his  chair. 

Jacob  said  no  more,  but  replaced  the  papers  in  the 
strong  box,  handed  the  key  to  his  father,  and  left  the 
room,  a  different  man  from  when  he  entered  it.  He 
could  not  be  an  original  great  man,  but  he  could  appre- 
ciate and  reverence  original  greatness ;  and,  being  in- 
structed, could  faithfully  carry  out  the  behests  of  that 
greatness.  Doubtless  his  father,  who  had  the  insight 
into  human  nature  which  generally  characterizes  men  of 
his  sort,  had  perceived  this,  and  had  shaped  his  conduct 
accordingly.  Nor  is  it  impossible — the  greatest  of  men 
being  but  men  after  all — that  Mr.  Bendibow  may  have 


52  DUST. 

taken  his  son  into  his  confidence  as  much  to  guard 
against  his  own  human  weakness  as  to  provide  against 
the  contingency  of  his  death  or  incapacity.  Proudly 
though  he  asserted  the  staunchness  oi  his  purpose,  he 
had  that  day  felt  the  tug  of  temptation,  and  may  have 
been  unwilling  to  risk  the  strain  unaided  again.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  it  is  certain  that  the  confidence  came  none  too 
soon.  When  the  evening  meal  was  ready  Mr.  Bendibow 
did  not  appear;  his  customary  punctuality  made  the 
delay  seem  extraordinary ;  so,  after  waiting  half  an 
hour,  Jacob  went  to  summon  him.  He  knocked  at  the 
door,  but  no  response  came.  At  last  he  made  bold  to 
open  the  door ;  and  there  sat  Abraham  Bendibow  in  his 
chair,  with  the  key  of  the  strong  box  in  his  hand,  look- 
ing, in  the  dusk,  very  much  as  he  had  looked  when  Jacob 
left  him  three  hours  before.  But  Abraham  Bendibow 
was  dead. 

All  his  affairs  were  found  to  be  in  order ;  and,  among 
the  other  contents  of  the  strong  box,  was  the  book  of 
rules  of  which  he  had  spoken  to  Jacob.  As  to  the  South 
Sea  stock,  it  sank  and  sank,  and  Jacob's  heart  sank  with 
it;  and  when  the  stock  had  reached  six  hundred  and 
forty,  Jacob's  heart  was  in  his  boots.  Nevertheless  he 
was  faithful  to  his  trust,  and  held  on.  Soon  afterward 
the  agents  of  the  Company  bought  largely,  and  stock  rose 
once  more,  and  practically  for  the  last  time.  The  hour 
came,  at  last  when  it  was  quoted  at  one  thousand,  and 
then,  with  a  trembling  delight,  and  with  a  conviction  of 
his  father's  prescience  and  wisdom,  that  amounted  to  re- 
ligious veneration,  Jacob  went  forth  and  sold ;  and  that 
night  he  deposited  in  the  strong  box  bank-notes  and 
bullion  to  the  amount  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
pounds.  Such  was  the  beginning  of  the  famous  house 
of  Bendibow. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  history  of  the  house  of  Bendibow  &  Son — or  of 
Bendibow  Brothers,  as  it  came  to  be  called — was  broadly 
the  history  of  the  eighteenth  century  in  England.  Per- 
sons who  deal  in  money  are  apt  to  come  into  relation 
with  most  of  the  prominent  characters  and  events  of  their 
time,  and  Bendibow  Brothers  dealt  in  that  commodity 
very  extensively.  The  thirty  years  covered  by  the  reign 
of  George  the  Second  was  a  picturesque  and  brilliant 
period.  Famous  personages  were  to  be  met  every- 
where— in  London,  Epsom,  Bath,  Tunbridge  and  Scar- 
borough: York,  too,  was  a  fashionable  place  in  those 
days ;  Shrewsbury  was  full  of  merry-making,  and  New- 
market attracted  other  people  beside  professed  lovers  of 
the  turf.  Congreve  was  living  out  the  last  years  of  his 
life,  and  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  was  still  acting  his  plays,  when 
the  second  representative  of  the  Brunswick  line  came  to 
the  throne.  Addison  had  died  a  few  years  previously, 
Steele  a  year  or  two  afterward ;  Pope,  Swift,  Fielding 
and  Defoe  were  all  in  full  cry  and  condition.  Lord 
Bathurst  was  in  mid-career  as  patron  of  literary  celeb- 
rities, and  the  fascinating  and  romantic  Earl  of  Peter- 
borough was  losing  his  heart  to  the  sweet  voice  and  face 
of  Anastasia  Robinson.  Hogarth  and  Kneller  were  in 
existence,  and  Arbuthnot  was  witty  and  wise.  Hand- 
some Tom  Grantley,  destined  to  become  one  of  the  fore- 
most men  of  fashion  and  intrigue  of  his  time,  was  in 
1732  a  little  squalling  baby  in  the  south  of  Ireland. 
George  the  First  had  created  the  earldom  of  Seabridge 
upward  of  fifteen  years  before,  in  consequence  of  assist- 

63 


54  DUST. 

ance  rendered  to  him  by  the  then  head  of  the  family 
during  the  Rebellion  ;  and  it  was  at  about  the  same  date 
that  Mary  Lancaster,  niece  of  Lord  Croftus,  first  saw  the 
light — she  who  was  afterward  to  unite  the  two  families 
by  her  marriage  with  the  second  Earl  of  Seabridge. 
Meanwhile  Mary  Bellenden  was  esteemed  the  loveliest, 
and  Mary  "Wortley  Montague  the  cleverest  of  living 
women.  As  time  went  on,  and  the  century  approached 
its  middle  age,  Garrick  began  to  act  in  London;  Beau 
Nash,  superb,  autocratic  and  imperturbable,  ruled  the 
roast  at  Bath ;  Horace  Walpole  embroidered  society  with 
the  brilliance  of  his  affected  and  sentimental  persiflage ; 
Smollet  hobnobbed  with  Quin,  and  the  Great  Commoner 
stalked  about,  glaring  out  appallingly  from  the  jungle  of 
his  shaggy  wig.  Amusement  was  the  religion  of  the  age, 
and  recklessness  was  its  morality.  It  was  the  apotheosis 
of  card  playing ;  literature  was  not  good  form ;  cards  and 
men  formed  the  library  of  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough. 
What  are  now  termed  the  mental  resources  of  civiliza- 
tion, being  as  yet  unknown,  life  was  so  conducted  as  to 
become  a  constant  variety  and  succession  of  condiments. 
Criminals  were  made  to  minister  to  the  general  entertain- 
ment by  being  drawn  and  quartered,  as  well  as  beheaded 
and  hanged;  gentlemen  pistoled  and  skewered  one  an- 
other instead  of  being  contented  with  calling  each  other 
names,  and  sueing  for  damages  and  defamation.  Tem- 
pers were  hot,  hearts  were  bold,  and  conversation  was 
loose  on  all  sides.  Wine  was  cheap,  tea  was  dear,  glut- 
tony and  drunkenness  were  anything  but  improper.  The 
country  folks  were  no  less  energetic  on  their  own  scale. 
They  romped  and  shouted  at  village  fairs  and  wakes; 
they  belabored  one  another  scientifically  with  cudgels ; 
half-naked  women  ran  races  and  jumped  hurdles ;  May- 
poles were  hoisted  on  every  green ;  and  the  disaffected 
rode  out  on  the  king's  highway  with  masks  and  pistols. 
Love-making,  with  persons  of  condition  at  least,  was  a 


DUST.  55 

matter  less  of  hearts  than  of  fortunes  and  phases :  it  was 
etiquette  for  everybody  in  small  clothes  to  languish  at  the 
feet  of  everybody  in  petticoats.  The  externals  of  life 
were  sumptuous  and  splendid,  because  no  time  and 
trouble  were  wasted  upon  internals.  An  element  of 
savagery  and  brutality  pervaded  all  classes,  high  and 
low,  without  which  the  game  could  not  have  been  kept 
up  with  such  unflagging  plausibility  and  zeal. 

But  all  this  fun  had  to  be  fed  with  money,  or  at  all 
events  with  credit ;  and  Bendibow  Brothers  were  always 
prepared,  on  proper  security,  to  furnish  either ;  where- 
fore a  great  portion  of  this  gorgeous  procession  passed 
through  their  dingy  office  in  the  city,  on  its  way  to  or 
from  its  debaucheries.  And  since  the  brethren  (following 
the  injunctions  of  their  long-headed  founder)  aimed  no 
less  at  social  distinction  than  at  the  wealth  which  should 
render  that  distinction  profitable,  they  frequently  saw 
their  way  to  accept,  from  certain  of  their  customers,  in- 
terest payable  otherwise  than  in  hard  cash.  An  intro- 
duction to  Lord  Croftus's  drawing-room,  for  example, 
might  be  cheaply  purchased  for  an  advance  of  a  thou- 
sand pounds ;  a  sinecure  post  in  the  army  for  a  junior 
member  of  the  firm,  or  a  foreign  order  for  the  senior, 
would  be  worth  three  or  four  times  as  much  ;  while,  for 
the  hand  of  a  daughter  of  the  junior  branch  of  a  titled 
family,  twenty  or  thirty  thousand  pounds  down  would  be 
considered  a  profitable  transaction.  Worldly  wisdom  and 
foresight,  in  short,  formed  as  important  a  part  of  the 
Bendibow  policy  as  direct  and  literal  pecuniary  returns. 
Indeed,  it  was  upon  the  profit  of  their  innumerable  small 
transactions  that  they  relied  for  the  bulk  of  their  mate- 
rial wealth :  with  the  great  and  haughty  their  dealings 
were  uniformly  liberal  and  dignified.  The  consequence 
was,  that  when  the  Jacobite  rebellion  broke  out,  the 
Government  accepted  a  substantial  loan  from  Bendibow 
Brothers,  as  being  not  only  the  richest  but  the  most  loyal 


56  DUST. 

and  respectable  firm  of  bankers  in  England.  Mr.  Joseph 
Bendibow,  one  of  the  partners,  was,  for  some  unexplained 
reason,  "promoted"  to  the  rank  of  colonel  in  the  regular 
army ;  and  five  years  later  the  head  of  the  family  was 
raised  to  the  baronetage.  Hereupon  a  constituency 
was  purchased  at  a  not  too  exorbitant  rate,  and — the 
Bendibows  having  long  since  abandoned  their  Jewish 
proclivities,  and  presented  themselves  to  the  world  as 
immaculate  Protestant  Christians — for  the  remainder  of 
their  career  the  descendants  of  the  obscure  Hebrew  gold- 
smith and  money-lender  were  numbered  among  the  law- 
givers of  their  country  and  trusty  advisers  of  the  Crown. 
It  was  an  honorable  position,  patiently  tried  for  and 
cleverly  won.  None  of  the  Bendibows,  since  the  time  of 
Abraham,  their  progenitor,  had  been  in  any  sense  men  of 
genius ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  none  of  them  had  been 
destitute  of  common  sense,  prudence,  steadiness,  supple- 
ness, and  persistency  ;  and  they  had  also  possessed — what 
perhaps  was  of  more  value  to  them  than  any  of  their 
native  virtues — a  private  family  bible,  in  the  shape  of  the 
book  of  rules,  written  and  bequeathed  to  them  by  the 
patriarch  above  mentioned.  It  would  be  interesting,  and 
possibly  edifying,  to  review  the  contents  of  this  work. 
No  doubt  it  was  brimming  over  with  human  astuteness  ; 
and  might  be  described  as  a  translation  into  eighteenth- 
century  ideas  and  language  of  the  mystic  injunctions  of 
the  old  alchemists  in  reference  to  the  Philosopher's  Stone. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  the  book  went  far  toward  achieving 
the  end  for  which  it  was  composed ;  and  if  the  Bendibows 
were  as  yet  not  quite  a  hundredfold  millionaires  and 
peers  of  the  realm,  they  seemed  fairly  on  their  way  to  be 
so.  To  that  consummation  the  brethren  themselves 
looked  forward  with  justifiable  confidence.  Nevertheless, 
looking  at  their  whole  history  from  the  vantage-ground 
of  our  own  century,  we  can  see  that  the  accession  of 
George  the  Third  was  the  period  of  their  actual  apogee. 


DUST.  57 

It  was  about  that  time  that  Francis  Bendibow  was 
born — he  whose  genius  almost  equaled  that  of  Abraham, 
and  who,  indeed,  carried  the  reputation  of  the  bank  to  a 
point  higher  than  any  which  it  had  before  attained.  But 
reputation  does  not  alwa}rs,  nor  in  the  long  run,  mean 
prosperity;  and  Sir  Francis  Bendibow,  along  with  his 
genius,  perhaps  possessed  some  qualities  which,  under 
pressure  of  circumstances,  were  capable  of  doing  mis- 
chief. But  that  shall  be  enlarged  upon  in  its  proper 
place. 

Society  was  now  becoming  more  intellectual,  more  civi- 
lized, and  more  depraved.  That  abstruse  idea,  which  is 
covered  by  the  phrase  "Fine  Gentleman,"  now  received 
its  most  complete  embodiment.  IJ  was  a  patrician  era, 
but  also  an  era  in  which  genius,  of  whatever  kind,  could 
force  men  and  women  from  obscurity  to  the  light.  The 
youthful  Sheridan  was  making  a  good  impression  at  Bath 
by  his  fine  figure,  hearty  face,  and  manly  and  unaffected 
bearing,  even  before  the  "  Kivals  "  and  the  "School  for 
Scandal "  had  been  written ;  and  he  and  his  fellow- 
countryman,  Tom  Grantley — though  the  latter  was  more 
than  fifteen  years  his  senior — were  on  the  most  cordial 
terms ;  and  it  was  said  at  the  time  that  Grantley  was  of 
assistance  to  Sheridan  in  that  gentleman's  elopement 
with  the  beautiful  Miss  Linley.  Fox,  with  others  of  his 
kidney,  were  setting  the  fashion  of  colossal  gambling  as 
a  means  of  working  off  their  superfluous  nervous  vital- 
ity and  the  estates  of  their  ancestors ;  Whattier's  and 
White's,  Brookes's  and  Kaffett's  saw  such  sights  as  will 
never  come  again ;  statesmen  and  macaronis,  parsons  and 
opera-dancers,  soldiers  and  play-writers,  fine  ladies  and 
fine  females,  all,  according  to  their  several  natures  and 
capacities,  took  the  most  serious  interest  in  cock-fighting, 
rat-hunting,  singing  and  dancing,  betting,  dicing,  antique 
statues  and  old  pictures,  divorce  and  atheism.  But,  as 
the  century  culminated,  war,  and  the  armies  which  fought 


58  DUST. 

it,  overtopped  all  other  interests ;  political  opinions,  or 
professions  of  opinion,  were  at  the  acme  of  vehemence  ; 
furious  pamphlets  fluttered  on  all  sides ;  Dibdin  wrote 
songs  to  encourage  Kelson's  sailors ;  Wilkes  was  synony- 
mous with  liberty ;  and  King  George,  believing  himself 
the  father  of  his  people,  spent  his  long  life  in  doing  them 
all  the  harm  in  his  power.  And  all  this,  too,  required 
money,  and  more  money  than  ever ;  and  Bendibow  Bro- 
thers were  more  than  ever  mixed  up  in  it — more,  indeed, 
than  was  at  that  time  suspected  ;  for  Francis  Bendibow 
had  begun  to  show  what  was  in  him ;  and  his  suggestions 
and  enterprises  had  begun  first  to  astound,  then  to  dazzle 
and  fascinate  his  more  methodical  and  humdrum  part- 
ners, until  it  seemed  likely  that  he  might  take  upon  him- 
self to  edit  a  new  and  improved  edition  of  the  private 
family  bible.  In  truth,  he  was  a  very  brilliant  and  popu- 
lar gentleman,  whom  everybody  knew,  and  whom  nobody 
who  was  anybody  disliked.  He  was  the  confidant  of  as 
many  social  secrets  as  a  fashionable  physician  or  lawyer, 
and  knew  more  about  political  intrigues  than  any  other 
man  out  of  the  Cabinet.  It  was  a  marvel  how  well,  con- 
sidering the  weight  of  his  multifarious  responsibilities, 
he  managed  to  preserve  his  aspect  of  gayety  and  good 
nature.  But  it  often  happens  that  precisely  those  per- 
sons who  have  most  to  conceal,  and  who  deal  most  in 
mysteries,  appear,  in  the  careless  eyes  of  their  contem- 
poraries, more  frank  and  undisguised  than  anybody  else. 
Sir  Francis  Bendibow,  be  it  repeated,  was  a  general  fa- 
vorite of  society,  as  well  as  a  special  favorite  of  fortune ; 
and  somewhere  about  1790  he  confirmed  his  successes  by 
allying  himself  with  the  Barons  Croftus  by  marriage  with 
a  daughter  of  the  then  lord. 

From  that  time  forward  the  affairs  of  Bendibow  Bro- 
thers went  on  with  much  ostensible  smoothness  and  good 
fortune,  though  whether  anything  less  serene  and  com- 
fortable lay  hidden  beneath  this  fair  surface,  is  a  question 


DUST.  59 

the  answer  to  which  must  for  the  moment  be  reserved. 
One  or  two  events  only  need  to  be  mentioned,  in  order  to 
bring  us  down  to  the  epoch  at  which  this  story  properly 
begins.  Tom  Grantley,  who  throughout  his  career  had 
always  been  an  ample  customer  of  the  Bendibows,  and 
who,  like  so  many  others,-  had  insensibly  allowed  his 
business  relations  with  them  to  develop  into  social  inter- 
course, had,  in  1771,  placed  his  son  Charles,  then  a  boy 
of  fifteen,  in  the  bank  in  the  capacity  of  clerk,  with  the 
understanding  that  he  was  afterward  to  be  admitted  to 
partnership,  should  he  turn  out  to  be  qualified  for  that 
position.  This  was  a  good  thing  for  Charles,  in  a  pecu- 
niary point  of  view,  and  his  abilities,  which  were  always 
remarkable,  made  it  likely  that  his  career  would  be  a 
successful  one.  As  for  the  social  aspects  of  the  affair,  the 
Bendibows  were  perhaps  greater  gainers  than  Grantley, 
since  Charles  had  the  noble  Seabridge  blood  in  his  veins. 
But  Charles'  father,  though  aristocratic  and  imperious 
enough  in  his  own  practice,  was  theoretically  liberal  and 
even  republican  in  his  views ;  and  possibly  he  was  not 
sorry  to  requite  the  neglect  which  his  wife's  family  had 
shown  him  by  embarking  the  grandson  of  the  earl  in  a 
mercantile  life.  Charles,  for  his  own  part,  was  actually 
what  his  father  was  only  in  idea ;  that  is  to  say,  he  sym- 
pathized with  the  enlightened  and  revolutionary  spirit 
that  was  abroad,  and  which  was  taking  palpable  form  in 
the  American  colonies  and  in  France.  He  rebelled 
against  the  claims  of  caste,  and,  before  he  was  twenty- 
one,  was  pretty  well  known  as  a  social  reformer  and 
radical.  This,  of  itself,  would  not  have  impaired  the 
social  popularity  of  one  who  could  call  an  earl  his  kins- 
man ;  not  only  because  extreme  opinions  were  in  those 
days  considered  rather  interesting  and  amusing  than 
otherwise,  but  because  then,  as  at  all  times,  a  man  may 
be  or  say  anything  he  pleases,  provided  he  will  be  or 
say  it  in  a  sufficiently  graceful  or  skillful  manner.  But 


60  DUST. 

Charles,   unfortunately,   was  as  abrupt,   unconciliating 
and  dogmatic  in  his  manner  as  he  was  startling  and  un- 
conventional in  his  views.   He  was  not  only  able  to  utter 
disagreeable  and  embarrassing  truths  at  inconvenient 
moments,  but  he  seemed  actually  fond  of  doing  so ;  and, 
since  he  was  not   more  prepossessing  in  person  than 
adroit  in  behavior,  society  for  the  most  part  ended  by 
giving  him  up  as  a  bad  job.      "Charles  would  be  very 
well,  if  he  wasn't  so  damned  sincere,"  was  one  of  the 
least  uncharitable  judgments  that  those  who  were  willing 
to  be  his  friends  pronounced  upon  him.     Charles  mean- 
while seemed  to  take  the  situation  very  composedly.  The 
social  intercourse  which  was  not  to  be  had  in  fashionable 
drawing-rooms  and  coffee-houses  he  sought  and  found 
elsewhere — among  literary  men,  perhaps,  or  others  still 
lower  in  the  social  scale.     In  his  chosen  circle — whatever 
it  was — he  was  eminent  and  influential.     Every  one  re- 
spected him ;  many  feared  him  a  little  ;  a  few  liked  him 
heartily,  or  even  loved  him.     He  was  of  a  fiery,  warlike 
temperament,  and  nothing  could  daunt  him  or  dishearten 
him.     He  was  proud  and  sensitive  beyond  what  seemed 
reasonable ;  but  those  who  knew  him  well  said  he  was 
full  of  tenderness  and  generosity,  and  that  a  more  affec- 
tionate and  self-sacrificing  man  never  lived.     Perhaps 
neither  his  friends  nor  his  foes  entirety  understood  him. 
One  thing  about  him,  at  all  events,  no  one  understood, 
and  that  was  how  he  and  Francis  Bendibow  came  to  be 
such  friends.   The  two  young  men  were,  it  is  true,  nearly 
of  the  same  age ;  their  business  interests  were  identical ; 
and  much  of  their  time  must  of  necessity  be  passed  in 
each  other's  neighborhood.     But  no  amount  of  external 
association  together  will  of  itself  suffice  to  make  new 
friends :  it  is  quite  as  apt  to  have  an  opposite  effect.     It 
was  plain  to  the  most  careless  glance  that  Charles  and 
Francis  were  in  disposition  and  temperament  as  wide 
asunder  as  the  poles :  and — the  affairs  of  the  bank  aside — 


DLftfT.  61 

Francis  was  devoted  to  all  those  objects  and  interests  for 
which  Charles  cared  nothing,  or  less.  Nevertheless, 
there  was  the  fact,  account  for  it  how  you  will.  Charles 
was  devoted  to  Francis ;  resented  any  disparagement  of 
him  ;  and  did,  upon  occasion^  even  go  so  far  as  to  espouse 
the  side  of  his  friend  in  argument  against  the  side  of 
which  he  himself  was  the  representative — for  Francis' 
logic  was  sometimes  faulty,  and  his  faculty  of  seeing  all 
the  best  points  in  his  own  cause  was  not  always  infal- 
lible. Whether  Francis'  friendship  for  Charles  was  quite 
so  ardent  and  thorough  as  Charles'  for  him  may  be 
doubted.  Men  who  are  universally  friendly  and  popular 
seldom  rise  to  the  height  of  a  vehement  individual  pre- 
ference. But  there  is  little  doubt  that  he  was  impressed 
by  Charles'  affection,  that  he  reciprocated  it  as  far  as  in 
him  lay,  and  that,  although  he  was  wont  to  affect  a  good- 
humored  air  of  patronizing  his  friend,  chaffing  him,  and 
laughing  at  the  intensity  and  seriousness  of  his  convic- 
tions, he  in  reality  deferred  to  Charles'  judgment  and 
recognized  his  personal  force  and  capacity.  "We  could 
never  get  on  without  old  Charles,"  was  a  saying  often  in 
his  mouth.  And  when  Charles  fell  in  love  with  Francis' 
sister,  Ruth  Bendibow,  Francis  was  a  hearty  supporter 
of  the  match.  The  marriage  took  place  when  Charles 
was  in  his  thirty-first  year — Tom  Grantley  having  died 
upward  of  ten  years  before.  The  following  year  a  daugh- 
ter was  born,  and  her  name  was  called  Perdita. 

When  Perdita  was  about  six  years  old,  a  mysterious 
calamity  occurred.  Society  wondered,  guessed,  and  spec- 
ulated, but  never  found  out  the  whole  truth  of  the  affair. 
All  that  was  certain  was,  that  Charles  Grantley  suddenly 
disappeared  from  London,  leaving  his  wife  and  daughter 
behind  him.  There  was  a  rumor  that  he  had  also  left 
behind  him  a  letter,  addressed  to  Sir  Francis  Bendibow, 
begging  him  to  look  after  the  welfare  of  his  family,  whom 
he  could  not  ask  to  share  with  him  his  exile  and  disgrace. 


62  DUST. 

What,  then,  was  this  disgrace  ?  Sir  Francis,  when  inter- 
rogated on  the  subject,  preserved  a  melancholy  and  dig- 
nified silence.  It  was  surmised  that  he  would  not  accuse 
his  friend,  and  he  could  not  defend  him.  But  had  Charles 
Grantley,  whom  all  Lthe  world  had  taken  to  be  at  least 
the  soul  of  honesty  and  honor — could  he  have  been  guilty 
of  a  dishonest  or  dishonorable  action  ?  Well,  human 
nature  is  weak,  and  the  best  and  strongest  of  men  have 
their  unaccountable  moments  of  frailty.  Grantley,  no 
doubt,  had  been  exposed  to  temptation.  He  had  for  some 
time  past  been  admitted  a  full  partner  in  the  firm ;  and 
it  was  known  that  he  had  latterly  been  building  and  fur- 
nishing an  expensive  house.  Moreover,  he  was  believed 
to  be  a  member  of  more  than  one  secret  society ;  and  he 
had  perhaps  been  induced  or  compelled  to  advance  large 
contributions  toward  their  support.  The  coffers  of  the 
bank  were  open  to  him.  .  .  .  Why  rehearse  again  a 
story  so  often  told  ?  Enough  that  Charles  Grantley  van- 
ished from  the  world  that  knew  him,  and  that  no  news 
ever  came  to  tell  whither  he  had  gone.  It  was  only  chari- 
table to  suppose  that  he  did  not  long  survive  the  disgrace 
into  which  he  had  plunged  himself. 

His  wife  died  some  years  after  his  disappearance  ;  not 
of  a  broken  heart — for  she  had  never  cherished  any  very 
vital  affection  for  her  husband,  and  always  seemed  angry 
rather  than  grieved  at  the  calamity — but  from  an  acute 
attack  of  bilious  fever.  She  was  a  beautiful  and  talented 
woman,  but  probably  was  not  without  certain  blemishes 
of  head  or  heart.  Perdita  was  thus  left — so  far  as  could 
be  known — an  orphan.  Sir  Francis  Bendibow,  amidst 
general  applause,  formally  adopted  her.  Certainly,  to 
accept  as  your  own  the  daughter  of  the  man  who  has 
defrauded  you,  especially  when  that  man  happens  to  be 
your  brother-in-law,  shows  a  rare  magnanimity.  Perdita 
was  brought  up  as  befitted  a  young  lady  liable  to  hold  a 
good  position  in  society.  For  obvious  reasons  she  was 


DUST.  68 

allowed  to  forget  her  unhappy  father,  and  encouraged  to 
regard  herself  as  the  actual  offspring  of  her  benevolent 
guardian.  The  girl  throve  passing  well — more  than  ful- 
filling her  early  promise  of  beauty  and  grace.  She,  more- 
over, gave  signs  of  possessing  a  strongly-marked  charac- 
ter, hard,  subtle  and  persistent ;  but,  as  the  crudity  of 
girlhood  passed  away,  those  harsher  lineaments  ceased  to 
obtrude  themselves — the  young  lady's  own  sense  of  har- 
mony doubtless  prompting  her  to  disguise  them  beneath 
a  soft  and  seductive  exterior;  and  she  was  by  nature 
luxurious,  and  had  the  instinct  of  equipping  herself  cap- 
a-pie  from  the  mystic  arsenal  of  voluptuous  artifice  to 
which  only  such  women  have  the  key.  Her  debut  in 
society  was  very  effective,  and  she  took  all  the  other 
women's  admirers  away  from  them.  But  her  own  heart 
seemed  to  remain  unimpaired ;  and,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  was  a  lack  of  really  desirable  offers  of  marriage ; 
for  it  was  thought,  not  unreasonably,  that  Perdita  ought 
to  make  a  great  match — say  an  earl  at  the  least.  But  the 
earls  hung  back ;  perhaps  it  was  the  still  lingering  shadow 
of  her  unfortunate  parent  that  disqualified  her.  Here, 
however,  fortune  who,  save  for  that  one  ill  turn,  was  in 
love  with  Perdita  almost  to  the  end  of  her  career,  brought 
into  the  field  an  elderly  and  extremely  wealthy  foreign 
personage,  who  succumbed  to  the  young  lady's  fascina- 
tions at  their  first  interview,  made  her  an  offer  of  his  cor- 
dial and  worldly  effects  on  the  following  week,  and  was 
made  the  happiest  of  men  in  making  her  his  wife  by  the 
end  of  the  month.  Perdita,  for  some  unexplained  reason, 
received  little  more  than  a  bare  outfit  from  her  affection- 
ate uncle  and  foster-father ;  but  there  were  unexception- 
able settlements  on  the  part  of  her  husband ;  and  she 
accompanied  the  latter  to  the  continent  with  eclat  and  a 
brilliant  future  before  her — being  still  in  her  nineteenth 
year,  while  her  husband  was  at  least  sixty,  with  an 
unpaired  constitution.  Whether  the  issue  of  the  affair 


64  DUST. 

was  as  prosperous  as  it  bade  fair  to  be  Sir  Francis  Bendi- 
bow was  not  informed ;  for  his  adopted  daughter  had 
never  since  her  departure  troubled  him  with  any  letters 
or  messages.  For  all  he  knew,  she  might  be  in  the  New 
World,  or  even  in  the  next.  The  worthy  baronet  con- 
soled himself  for  this  neglect  as  best  he  might  by  lavish- 
ing attention  upon  the  rearing  and  education  of  his  only 
bona-fide  child,  a  sickly  and  rather  unpromising  son. 
The  result  of  the  education  was,  that  the  young  gentle- 
man was  allowed  pretty  much  his  own  way ;  and,  like 
other  men  before  him  who  have  steered  in  the  same  direc- 
tion, he  arrived  at  nothing  particularly  edifying.  Sir 
Francis  spoilt  him,  in  short ;  and  the  youth  was  not  one 
of  those  who  can  stand  much  spoiling.  He  could  fight  a 
cock,  throw  a  main,  hunt  a  rat,  drive  a  horse,  and  upon 
occasion — as  we  have  seen — could  upset  a  coach.  Per- 
haps, when  the  time  came,  he  would  be  able  to  carry  on 
the  business  of  the  great  house  of  Bendibow  Brothers ; 
but  it  must  be  confessed  that  just  at  present  probabilities 
looked  the  other  way.  It  was  not  merely  that  young 
Mr.  Thomas  Bendibow  had  no  practical  knowledge  of 
business;  but  that  he  had  no  brothers,  nor  even  any 
cousins ;  that  he  was  in  fact  the  last  of  his  family ;  and 
looked,  at  twenty,  as  if  he  hardly  had  pith  in  him  to  out- 
live his  father,  who  was  sixty-two;  so  that  good  Sir 
Francis,  sitting  day  after  day  in  his  little  private  room  at 
the  rear  of  the  banking  premises,  may  be  supposed  to 
have  found  some  elements  of  concern  and  anxiety  min- 
gling with  the  general  complacency  of  his  reflections. 
Surely  he  did  not  deserve  to  be  the  prey  of  such  solici- 
tude. He  had  long  since  forgotten  the  follies  and  vani- 
ties of  his  golden  youth,  and  had  settled  down  to  be  one 
of  the  handsomest,  kindliest,  courtliest,  most  immaculate 
elderly  baronets  imaginable. 


CHAPTEE  vrn. 

THE  first  week  of  May  had  passed  by,  and  Sir  Francis 
Bendibow  was  sitting  in  his  private  room  at  the  bank, 
with  one  elegant  leg  crossed  over  the  other,  and  his  hands 
folded  over  his  embroidered  waistcoat.  He  appeared  to 
be  meditating,  with  the  placid  gravity  that  characterized 
him,  over  the  results  of  a  well-spent  and  profitable  life. 
At  length,  with  a  gentle  sigh,  he  uncrossed  his  legs,  took 
his  watch  from  his  fob,  and  consulted  its  enameled  face. 
It  wanted  five  minutes  to  three.  Sir  Francis  might,  with 
propriety,  abandon  business  for  the  day,  and  betake  him- 
self to  his  residence  in  Great  George  Street.  He  was  just 
en  the  point  of  touching  a  bell,  and  ordering  his  carriage 
to  be  called,  when  the  servant  came  to  the  door  and 
said  that  some  one  was  without  who  desired  to  see  Sir 
Francis. 

"Some  one  ?"  said  Sir  Francis,  mildly  and  interroga- 
tively. 

"A  lady,  Sir  Francis,"  explained  the  servant;  and 
something  in  the  way  he  pronounced  the  word  induced 
the  baronet  to  imagine  that  the  lady  was  neither  old  nor 


"What  is  the  lady's  name  ?"  he  inquired,  sitting  more 
erect  in  his  chair  and  settling  his  stock. 

"  She  gave  no  name,  Sir  Francis  ;  she  said  Sir  Francis 
would  receive  her." 

"  Hum  !  I  was  about  to  ask  you  to  order  the  carriage, 
Catnip  :  you  may  order  the  carriage  to  be  ready  in  ten 
minutes  ;  meanwhile  you  may  admit  the  lady  —  ahum  I" 

"Yes,  Sir  Francis." 

A  minute  afterward  the  lady  was  admitted, 
65 


66  DUST. 

Sir  Francis'  intuition  had  not  been  at  fault.  The  lady 
was  young  and  lovely.  She  was  five  feet  five  inches  in 
height — as  the  baronet  had  judged,  and  he  was  an  adept 
in  women — perfectly,  and  rather  fully  formed,  with  a 
foot  and  ankle  worthy  of  Titania.  Her  right  hand  was 
ungloved,  showing  a  small  soft  wrist,  taper  fingers  with 
dimpled  knuckles,  and  a  long  thumb.  Her  movement 
and  bearing  were  those  of  a  finished  woman  of  the  world, 
supplemented  by  just  physical  proportions  and  native 
grace.  She  was  dressed  richly,  and  in  the  fashion,  yet 
with  such  subtle  art,  that  one  remarked  that  her  attire 
suited  her  before  remarking  what  it  was.  "When  she 
came  in,  her  face  was  veiled ;  but  the  silken  web  was  not 
so  dense  as  to  conceal  the  sparkle  of  a  pair  of  dark  eyes, 
while  over  her  small  ears  and  at  the  back  of  her  neck 
were  discernible  some  short  locks  of  bright  curling  hair. 

She  advanced  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  there 
paused,  while  Sir  Francis  presented  her  with  a  grand 
obeisance. 

"Your  humble  servant,  madam,"  said  he.  "May  I 
entreat  you  to  be  seated  ?" 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  she  answered,  placing  herself  in  the 
chair  he  handed  to  her.  "I  shall  not  detain  you  very 
long.  I  came  to  you  on  a  matter  of  business." 

She  betrayed  a  slight  foreign  accent  in  speaking ;  but 
there  was  something  in  the  tone  of  her  voice  that  at- 
tracted the  baronet's  attention.  It  was  a  full,  clear,  and 
yet  lightsome  voice,  varying  easily  through  changing 
intonations,  always  harmonious  and  perfectly  under  con- 
trol; it  evinced  self-possession  and  a  musical  ear.  Sir 
Francis  was  already  charmed,  and  summoned  all  his 
graces  to  confront  the  occasion.  It  was  not  every  day 
that  destiny  brought  to  him  such  customers  as  this. 

"  I  shall  esteem  myself  fortunate  in  being  able  to  be  of 
any  service  to  you,"  he  said,  with  a  manner  at  once 
impressive  and  deferential. 


DUST.  67 

"You  are  extremely  good,  sir." 

"I  protest,  madam — not  in  the  least.  May  I  inquire, 
madam,  whether  you  are  familiar  with  London  ?" 

"  I  was  in  London  a  number  of  years  ago,  sir — I  think 
it  must  now  be  ten  years — " 

"In  that  case,  madam,  you  must  have  been  very 
young — quite  a  child,  in  fact.  The  town  may  therefore 
have  some  novelty  for  you.  Fortunately  the  season  is 
just  commencing,  and — " 

"Alas,  sir,  I  am  not  in  a  position  to  avail  myself  of 
gayeties." 

"  Indeed  ?    Egad,  madam,  I  protest  you  distress  me." 

"It  is  because  I  have  recently  met  with  a  sad  misfor- 
tune." 

"  You  are  too  young,  and — if  I  might  be  permitted  to 
say  it — too  fair  to  be  the  prey  of  misfortune,  madam. 
The  misfortune  is  not,  I  trust,  irremediable  ?" 

"  I  fear  it  is,  sir.     I  speak  of  the  loss  of  my  husband." 

Sir  Francis  was  a  little  puzzled.  "Was  this  lady  more 
or  less  of  a  woman  of  the  world  than  he  had  imagined? 
Was  there  not  after  all  something  of  the  ingenue  about 
her  ?  To  be  sure,  a  widow  cannot,  as  a  general  thing, 
be  accurately  described  as  an  ingenue ;  but,  practically, 
this  widow  might  be  so.  For  all  her  polished  self-pos- 
session of  voice  and  bearing — which  might  as  well  be  the 
result  of  early  education  as  of  the  training  of  worldly 
experience — for  all  this  her  mind  and  heart  might  be 
fresh  and  unsophisticated.  There  was  a  flavor  of  artless- 
ness,  almost  of  innocent  appeal,  in  what  she  said.  The 
baronet  felt  his  benevolent  heart  expand.  The  prospect 
of  relations — business  relations  of  course — with  a  young 
lady  at  once  so  attractive  and  so  unprotected,  enchanted 
him.  But  it  was  necessary  to  be  sure  of  his  ground — to 
inquire  further. 

"Widowhood  for  the  young  and  beautiful  is  indeed  the 
most  pathetic  of  all  predicaments  I"  he  exclaimed  with 


68  DUST. 

feeling.  "I  should  judge,  madam,  that  you  can't  have 
enjoyed  the  married  state  long?" 

"Not  very  long  ;  though  it  seemed  long  in  one  way." 

"Aye,  and  all  too  short  in  another,  no  doubt.  Ah, 
my  dear  madam,  I  can  sympathize  with  you ;  I  have  had 
my  bereavements,  egad !  and  my  sorrows.  These  are 
terrible  times,  madam ;  though,  thank  God,  that  Cor- 
sican  monster  is  safe  at  last :  but  he  has  made  many 
widows,  in  this  country  and  elsewhere.  Your  husband, 
perhaps,  fell  upon  the  field  of  battle  ?" 

"No,  sir.  Perhaps  I  should  have  told  you  that  my 
husband  was  a  Frenchman." 

This  reply  embarrassed  Sir  Francis.  It  was  his  inten- 
tion to  be  agreeable  to  the  lady,  and  he  had  unwittingly 
disturbed  her  sensibilities.  But  a  few  moments  sufficed 
him  to  recover  his  self-possession.  Not  for  a  trifle  of  con- 
sistency would  he  forfeit  the  good  opinion  of  so  charming 
a  client. 

"The  French,"  he  said,  "are  a  brave  and  noble 
people.  Now  that  there  is  no  longer  war  between  us  and 
them  we  can  acknowledge  it.  Bonaparte,  after  all,  was 
a  great  general,  and  a  man  of  genius.  No  one  can  regret 
more  than  myself,  madam,  the  necessity  which  has  re- 
moved him  to  Elba." 

"  Is  that  your  opinion,  sir?"  returned  the  lady,  coldly. 
"  My  husband  was  a  monarchist.  To  him  Bonaparte  was 
an  usurper  and  a  tyrant." 

Sir  Francis  struggled  not  to  appear  put  out  of  counte- 
nance. "Damn  these  French !"  he  said  internally ;  "you 
never  know  where  you  are  with  'em."  Aloud  he  said: 
"Your  husband  was  right,  madam,  from  his  point  of 
view.  He  was  loyal  to  his  convictions  and  to  his  tradi- 
tions. Every  one  must  respect  them  and  him — no  one 
certainly  more  than  I  myself,  who  am  the  loyal  supporter 
of  my  own  king.  That  such  a  man  as  your  husband 
should  be  cut  off  in  the  prime  of  his  youth  is  a  calamity 


DUST.  69 

to  his  country,"  concluded  Sir  Francis,  feeling  that  at  all 
events  he  was  safe  there. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir  ?"  said  the  lady  ingenuously. 

"Your  husband,  I  say,  dying  in  the  first  flush  of 
youth — " 

"  Oh,  my  husband  was  not  a  very  young  man,"  inter- 
posed the  lady  gravely.  "In  fact,  it  may  be  said  that  he 
died  of  old  age.  He  was  only  a  little  over  seventy,  it  is 
true ;  but  he  had  for  several  years  past  been  in  very 
infirm  health." 

"Zounds,  madam,  you — you  surprise  me  !"  exclaimed 
Sir  Francis,  almost  losing  patience.  Reflecting,  how- 
ever, that  it  was  unlikely  a  wife  so  youthful  should  have 
felt  any  passionate  attachment  to  a  husband  so  ancient, 
he  plucked  up  courage ;  the  task  of  consoling  the  lady 
would  be  by  so  much  the  less  difficult.  She  sat  there 
very  quietly,  with  her  hands  resting  one  within  another 
in  her  lap,  and  her  dark  eyes  sparkling  through  her  veil. 
Sir  Francis  conceived  a  strong  desire  to  see  that  veil 
lifted.  But  he  would  proceed  cautiously. 

"You  are,  then,  alone  in  the  world,"  he  remarked, 
compassionately.  "Probably,  however,  you  may  have 
kinsfolk  in  England  or  France  who — " 

"  Indeed,  sir,  I  am  very  unhappy,"  said  the  lady,  with 
a  melancholy  simplicity.  "  Such  few  relatives  as  I  pos- 
sess are  not,  I  fear,  kindly  disposed  toward  me." 

"  Surely  they  must  be  very  unnatural  persons — ahem  1" 
cried  Sir  Francis,  indignantly.  "  But  let  me  entreat  you 
not  to  be  downcast,  my  dear  madam.  Providence  some- 
times raises  up  friends  to  us  when  we  least  expect  it.  If 
I  might  speak  of  myself — " 

"Indeed, you  are  very  good,"  sa:d  the  lady  softly,  and 
with  a  little  movement  of  one  of  her  hands  that  seemed 
to  indicate  confidence  and  gratitude.  Sir  Francis  moved 
his  chair  a  little  nearer.  The  lady  continued :  "  My  hus- 
band, you  must  know,  has  left  me  the  entire  control  of 


70  DUST. 

his  property,  which  I  believe  is  very  large.  I  think  his 
income  was  what  you  would  call,  in  your  money,  ten 
thousand  pounds — is  it  not  ? — every  year ;  but  I  may  be 
mistaken :  I  am  so  stupid  in  those  affairs :  at  least  it  was 
more  than  three  hundred  thousand  francs." 

"In  that  case,  madam,  you  would  be  rather  under 
than  over  the  truth  in  your  estimate,"  said  the  baronet, 
bowing  with  increased  tenderness  of  manner,  and  bring- 
ing his  chair  so  close  to  that  of  his  visitor  that  she  drew 
back  a  little,  with  a  movement  half-startled,  half-coquet- 
tish. "We  must  speak  low,"  the  baronet  hastened  to 
say ;  "  this  room  is  not  quite  so  secluded  as  I  could  wish, 
and  curious  ears  .  .  .  but  to  the  point!  This  prop- 
erty—" 

"I  feel  so  helpless,"  said  the  lady,  leaning  forward 
with  an  impulse  of  confidence.  "I  do  not  care  for 
money :  I  do  not  understand  its  value,  nor  how  to  manage 
it.  I  am  overwhelmed  with  this  responsibility,  -which  I 
would  gladly  have  escaped.  But  my  husband's  will  was 
very  stringent  and  precise  in  its  terms,  and  I  have  no 
choice  but  to  accept  the  burden  he  has  laid  upon  me." 

"  Very  right,  my  dear  madam :  your  sentiments  do 
you  every  honor.  'Tis  a  responsibility,  indeed,  but  one 
which,  with  good  advice,  you  can  easily  support.  I  may 
say,  without  vanity,  that  my  experience  in  matters  of 
finance  is  as  extensive — " 

"Oh,  sir,  I  am  already  convinced  of  it,"  interposed 
the  lady  cordially.  "  Your  reputation  is  as  high  on  the 
Continent  as  here.  A  friend  of  my  husband's — known,  I 
believe,  also  to  you — counseled  me  to  come  to  you  and  to 
put  myself  unreservedly  in  your  hands.  The  name  of 
the  gentleman  was  Mr.  Lancaster — Mr.  Philip  Lancas- 
ter, I  think." 

"  Lancaster  !  yes,  yes,"  said  Sir  Francis,  genially.  "  I 
have  seen  Philip — a  fine  young  fellow,  though  with  a 
turn  for  poetry ;  but  he  is  still  young.  The  Lancasters, 


DUST.  71 

madam,  as  I  doubt  not  you  are  aware,  are  kin  to  the 
Barons  Croftus :  it  is  the  family  name.  They  are  rela- 
tives of  my  own  through  my  late  wife,  who  was  a  Lan- 
caster. Philip  is  my  nephew  by  marriage,  though  not 
by  blood.  In  sending  you  to  me  he  has  placed  me  under 
a  very  heavy  obligation — ahem  I" 

"You  cannot  expect  me  to  believe,  sir,  that  the  man- 
agement of  a  property  like  that  of  my  late  husband  can 
be  much  of  an  object  to  one  who  is  accustomed  to  lend 
money  to  empires." 

"  My  dear  madam,  you  misapprehend  me.  The  obli- 
gation has  reference  to  yourself,  not  to  your  property. 
As  to  that,  I  trust  you  will  not  think  so  ill  of  me  as  to 
imagine  that  I  would  seek  my  own  profit  in  any  transac- 
tions I  might  be  fortunate  enough  to  carry  out  for  you." 

"What  you  say,  sir,  persuades  me  that  the  English 
are  the  most  genteel  people  in  the  world.  And  besides," 
added  the  lady,  looking  down  and  turning  the  pearl  and 
diamond  ring  upon  the  finger  of  her  ungloved  hand,  "  it 
relieves  me  from  an  embarrassment."  Here  she  looked 
up  again,  and  Sir  Francis  felt  the  dark  eyes  meeting  his 
own.  He  was  by  this  time  in  a  mood  to  exchange  a 
great  deal  that  financiers  hold  dear  for  something  not 
more  substantial  than  a  draft  upon  the  bank  of  senti- 
ment. He  had  been  open  to  romantic  impressions  in  his 
youth,  and  his  mature  age  was  not  entirely  emancipated 
from  occasional  bondage  of  that  sort.  But  never,  he 
thought,  in  all  his  experience,  had  he  encountered  aught 
so  bewitching  in  the  shape  of  woman  as  she  who  now  sat 
before  him.  There  could  be  no  doubt  that  she  was 
already  extremely  well-disposed  toward  him;  and  his 
redoubtable  heart,  which  had  seen  him  through  many  a 
tough  experience  of  more  kinds  than  one,  actually  beat 
with  anticipation  as  he  pictured  to  himself  the  felicity 
that  might  be  in  store  for  him. 

"Never!"  he  exclaimed  fervently,  laying  his  hand 


72  DUST. 

upon  his  heart,  and  allowing  the  ardor  of  his  feelings  to 
glow  through  the  handsome  dignity  of  his  countenance — 
"  never,  madam,  need  you  be  a  prey  to  any  embarrass- 
ment from  which  the  utmost  of  my  humble  endeavors 
may  suffice  to  free  you." 

"  I  am  convinced  of  your  kindness  and  goodness  ;  but, 
dear  sir,  I  am  aware  that  matters  of  business  cannot  be 
controlled  by  the  dictates  of  generous  feeling.  For  my 
own  part  I  should  never  have  dreamed  of  making  any 
stipulations ;  but,  as  I  observed  just  now,  the  directions 
in  my  late  husband's  will  are  painfully  stringent.  I  must 
confess  to  you  that  it  was  not  altogether  in  accordance 
with  his  wishes  that  I  should  reside  in  England  after  his 
death." 

There  was  a  slight  tremor  in  the  tone  in  which  she 
made  this  confession.  Sir  Francis  leaned  forward,  de- 
voured with  tender  curiosity. 

"  In  fact,  sir,  he  was  opposed  to  it.  But  it  had  always 
been  my  dream  to  revisit  my  native  land,  for  I  am  an 
Englishwoman  by  birth,  though  so  long  an  exile.  I 
therefore  resolved,  if  it  were  possible,  to  overcome  the 
obstacles  which  he  had  placed  in  my  way.  It  rests  with 
you,  dear  sir,  to  decide  whether  or  not  I  am  to  succeed." 

"With  me!  my  dear — my  very  dear  madam,"  cried 
the  baronet,  impulsively  extending  his  hands  and  im- 
prisoning one  of  hers  between  them.  "Do  I  hear  you 
say  that  it  is  my  happy  privilege  to  be  so  far  the  arbiter 
of  your  destiny  ?  Oh,  charming  woman  !  command  me ! 
enlighten  me  !  show  me  how  I  can  prevent  you  from  ever 
putting  a  greater  distance  between  us  than — ahem  I — 
than—" 

"  You  must  not  speak  like  this,"  gently  interposed  the 
lady,  as  the  baronet  hesitated  for  a  phrase.  She  with- 
drew her  hand  from  his  own,  yet  so  that  the  deprivation 
seemed  to  convey  more  of  regard  than  would  the  caress 
of  another  woman.  "You  make  me  regret  my  coming 


DUST.  78 

to  you  on  this  errand.  It  would  be  better,  I  think,  if 
you  could  direct  me  to  some  other  banker — 

"Some  other  !  Impossible  !  How  have  I  been  so  un- 
happy as  to  make  you  regret  this  interview  ?" 

"It  could  be  for  only  one  reason,"  said  the  lady,  still 
more  kindly.  "You  lead  me  to  esteem  so  highly  the 
value  of  your  friendship  that  I  cannot  but  regret  it 
should  be  mingled  with  interests  of  a  less  elevated  char- 
acter. I  could  prize  you  so  much  as  a  friend  that  I  am 
reluctant  to  think  of  myself  as  your  customer." 

"  Sir  Francis  positively  blushed,  and  it  was  some  mo- 
ments before  he  recovered  himself.  "Do  not  think  of 
yourself  as  my  customer!"  he  then  exclaimed,  yielding 
himself  completely  to  the  fascinations  of  this  veiled 
enchantress ;  "  think  of  me  as  yours — as  the  customer 
who  applies  to  you  for  all  that  renders  his  existence 
a  blessing  to  him — for  your  friendship,  your  favor, 
your  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  sir  !"  murmured  the  lady,  rising  in  confusion. 

"  Charming  creature  I"  supplicated  the  baronet;  "be 
to  me  what  you  will,  but  do  not  rob  me  of  the  gift  of 
your  presence  !  Do  not  distrust  me — I  am  all  gentleness 
and  veneration.  I  am  impulsive ;  but  a  look,  a  word, 
restrains  me.  Come,  we  will  speak  of  business ;  busi- 
ness shall  be  the  lowly  yet  honorable  route  by  which  we 
may  in  due  course  travel  to  better  things.  I}ut,  business 
first !  How  can  I  be  of  service  to  you  ?  Is  it  your  desire 
to  make  any  deposit  ?  Is  there  any  negotiation  .  .  . 
but  pray,  honor  me  by  resuming  your  seat." 

"  I  blame  myself  for  detaining  you  so  long  ;  but  I  will 
try  to  be  brief.  It  amounts  to  a  question  of  the  rate  of 
interest.  I  am  so  little  acquainted  with  money  matters, 
sir,  as  to  be  ignorant  of  the  current  rate  in  England." 

"  Your  ignorance  does  you  no  discredit,  madam.  The 
fluctuations  in  the  money  market  have  of  late  years  been 
great ;  at  present,  happily,  confidence  is  being  restored, 


74  DUST. 

and  interest  is  lower.  Six  per  cent,  would  I  think  repre- 
sent a  liberal — " 

"  Six  per  cent.  ?  Ah,  I  understand  now  the  full  po- 
tency of  the  conditions  my  late  husband  imposed  upon 
me.  It  would  be  useless  for  me  to  attempt  to  contend 
against  them.  I  must  return,  then,  to  France."  In 
saying  this  the  lady  repressed  a  sigh,  and  made  a  move- 
ment as  if  to  close  the  interview. 

"But,  for  pity's  sake,  explain  yourself,  dear  madam  !" 
cried  Sir  Francis. 

"  It  would  humiliate  me  to  reveal  to  you  the  severity — 
I  must  not  call  it  the  unkindness — of  which  my  husband 
.  .  .  No,  indeed,  sir,  you  must  excuse  me — " 

Sir  Francis  interrupted  her  by  an  eloquent  gesture,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "At  least,  trust  me  1" 

"  If  I  must  speak,  then  let  it  be  as  to  a  friend,  and  in 
the  confidence  of  friendship, "  said  the  lady,  uttering  her- 
self with  an  apparent  effort.  "  My  husband's  instruction 
was,  that  in  case  of  my  living  in  England,  the  property 
was  to  be  intrusted  to  an  English  bank  of  unquestion- 
able solvency,  at  an  interest  of  twenty  per  cent.  If  this 
rate  were  not  allowed  by  the  bank,  the  property  was  not 
to  be  deposited  in  England ;  and  should  I  still  persist  in 
residing  here  the  whole  of  it  was  to  go  to  a  blood-relative 
of  my  husband.  I  have  to  choose,  therefore,  between 
being  a  beggar  and  remaining  an  exile.  Were  I  a  man  I 
should  not  hesitate  to  select  the  former  alternative,  trust- 
ing to  myself  to  earn  an  honest  livelihood ;  but,  as  I  am 
a  woman  .  .  ."  Her  voice  faltered,  and  she  paused. 

"As  you  are  a  woman,  and  the  most  adoi-able  of 
women,"  said  Sir  Francis,  gravely,  "it  shall  be  my 
happy  privilege  to  defeat  your  husband's  unjust  purpose, 
and  to  bid  you  remain  where  your  own  inclination  and 
the  urgency  of  your  friends  would  place  you.  Consider 
the  matter  settled.  Nay — do  not  reply.  I  claim — I  may 
even  affirm  that  I  possess — the  right  to  impose  my  wishes 


DUST.  75 

upon  you  in  this  respect.  I  am  the  head  of  the  house  of 
Bendibow ;  and  permit  me  to  add,  dear  madam,  that  in 
the  course  of  a  long  experience  I  have  never  been  en- 
gaged in  any  transaction  which  promised  me  advantages 
so  great  as  the  present."  Sir  Francis  concluded  this 
speech  with  a  bow  that  was  in  keeping  with  the  dignity 
and  magnificence  of  his  sentiments.  In  fact,  he  could 
not  but  be  conscious  of  the  grandeur  of  his  act,  and  his 
manner  uplifted  itself  accordingly.  But  the  lady  shook 
her  head. 

"Were  the  soundness  of  your  reasoning  as  unmis- 
takable as  the  goodness  and  nobility  of  your  heart,"  she 
said,  "  I  should  have  no  ground  for  hesitation ;  but  you 
offer  me  what  it  is  impossible  I  should  accept.  How  can 
I  consent  to  receive  a  yearly  sum  from  you  equal  to  the 
amount  of  my  present  income  ?  It  would  be  indistin- 
guishable from  a  gift.  I  thank  you  from  the  bottom  of 
my  soul;  but  it  cannot  be." 

"Madam,  you  wound  the  heart  that  you  pretend  to 
honor.  But  that  is  not  all;  you  infinitely  exaggerate 
your  profit  in  the  transaction.  Although  twenty  per 
cent,  is  considerably  in  excess  of  the  average  rates  of 
interest,  it  would  be  easy  for  me  so  to  arrange  matters 
that  the  bank's  loss  would  be  practically  nil." 

"Ah,  if  I  could  believe  that  .  .  ."  murmured  the 
lady,  half  to  herself. 

"  You  may  believe  it  implicitly,"  said  Sir  Francis,  who 
had  taken  a  sheet  of  paper  and  was  writing  rapidly  upon 
it.  In  a  few  moments  he  finished  the  writing  with  a 
flourish,  and  handed  it  over  to  his  visitor.  It  was  an 
agreement,  signed  and  dated,  to  pay  interest  at  the  rate 
of  twenty  per  cent,  upon  all  moneys  which  she  might 
deposit  in  the  bank.  "My  only  regret  is,  that  the  obli- 
gation on  your  side  is  so  trifling  as  to  be  merely  nomi- 
nal ;  I  might  otherwise  have  ventured  to  hope  for  some 
return — " 


76  DUST. 

"You  do  me  injustice,  sir,"  interrupted  the  lady 
warmly,  "if  you  imagine  that  I  would  yield  to  your 
pecuniary  liberality  what  I  would  refuse  to — to  other 
considerations.  You  do  yourself  injustice  if  you  regard 
your  personal  worth  as  not  outweighing  in  my  eyes  all 
the  bullion  in  your  bank.  You  must,  indeed,  have  mis- 
understood me,  to  think  otherwise." 

She  had  risen  as  she  spoke,  and  so  also  had  Sir  Francis. 
He  saw  the  error  he  had  committed,  and  recognized  the 
necessity  of  correcting  it  on  the  instant.  He  went  down 
upon  one  knee  before  her,  as  majestically  as  the  lack  of 
suppleness  which  sixty  years  had  inflicted  upon  his  joints 
permitted. 

"I  shall  remain  here,  madam,"  he  declared,  "until 
you  have  consented  to  condone  a  fault  for  which  the 
imperfection  of  my  language,  and  not  the  intention  of 
my  heart,  is  to  blame.  Lovely — irresistible  woman,  why 
should  I  longer  attempt  to  disguise  my  feelings  toward 
you  ?  Why  should  I  speak  of  the  respect  in  which  I 
hold  you,  the  honor,  the  admiration,  when  there  is  one 
word  which  comprises  and  magnifies  them  all?  You 
know  that  word ;  yet,  for  the  easing  of  my  own  heart,  it 
shall  be  uttered.  I  love  you  !" 

"Love?  .  .  .  Oh,  sir — you  mistake — that  is  not 
right — it  cannot — " 

But  Sir  Francis  had  possessed  himself  of  her  hand, 
and  was  imprinting  ardent  kisses  upon  it.  The  lady 
trembled;  she  seemed  to  be  agitated  by  some  strong 
emotion;  with  her  free  hand  she  pressed  her  veil  over 
her  face.  Sir  Francis  rose  and  attempted  to  enfold  her 
in  his  embrace.  But  she  eluded  him,  and  spoke  breath- 
lessly. 

"  If  you  really  have  any  regard  for  me,  sir,  you  will 
restrain  yourself.  Let  us — ah — let  us  speak  of  other 
things — this  paper.  Nay,  I  entreat  you  .  .  .  what 
would  you  have  me  say  ?  Is  this  a  time  or  a  place  for 


DUST.  77 

me  to  confess  that  you  have  inspired  me  with  a  senti- 
ment— oh  I  have  pity,  sir.  Come  to  me  to-morrow — this 
evening  if  you  will — but  not  here,  not  now."  .  .  . 

"You  give  me  hope,  then?  Divine  creature,  do  you 
grant  me  an  interview — " 

"Yes,  yes — anything!  indeed,  you  may  command  me 
but  too  easily :  only,  if  you  love  me  at  all,  have  consider- 
ation for  my  position — for — " 

"Enough!  I  am  obedient,  and  I  am  mute,  save  as 
you  bid  me  speak,"  cried  the  baronet,  almost  bewildered 
with  the  immensity  of  his  own  good  fortune,  and  physic- 
ally much  out  of  breath  besides.  He  sank  into  his  chair, 
panting.  "We  understand  each  other  I"  he  sighed  out, 
with  an  impassioned  smile.  "Till  this  evening!  mean- 
while— " 

"  This  paper,  then  ?  Is  it  a  legal  form  ?  Are  you 
serious  in  making  such  a  contract  with  me  ?" 

The  baronet  nodded  profoundly.  "  It  bears  my  signa- 
ture :  it  is  complete,  and  irrevocable !" 

"But  my  own  name  is  not  written  here.  You  have 
left  a  blank." 

"For  you  to  fill  up,  dearest  creature  I  How  could  I 
write  your  name,  when  you  have  not  told  me  what 
it  is  ?" 

"  How,  sir  ?  You  do  not  know  my  name  ?"  exclaimed 
the  lady,  with  an  accent  of  surprise. 

"Positively,  I  have  not  a  notion  of  it.  The  servant 
did  not  announce  it." 

"And  you  enter  into  this  contract  with  one  of  whom 
you  know  nothing  ?" 

"  'Tis  yourself,  fairest  of  your  sex,  not  your  name  that 
has  importance  for  me,"  panted  the  baronet  compla- 
cently. "  But  you  will  tell  it  me  ?  and  lift  that  veil  that 
obscures  so  much  beauty  ?" 

"Apparently,  Sir  Francis,  it  has  obscured  more  than 
my  beauty,"  returned  the  lady  dryly.  She  approached 


78  DUST. 

the  table  at  which  he  sat,  and  added,  "Give  me  your 
pen." 

Somewhat  startled  at  the  abruptness  of  her  tone,  the 
baronet  complied  with  her  request.  She  held  the  paper 
upon  the  desk  with  her  left  hand  while  she  wrote  a  name 
in  the  blank  space  which  Sir  Francis  had  left  for  that 
purpose.  His  eye  followed  the  swift  movement  of  the 
pen,  and  when  the  writer  laid  it  down,  he  read  out  the 
name  mechanically — 

"Perdita,  Marquise  Desmoines." 

Sir  Francis  leant  back  heavily  in  his  ehair,  and  his 
arms  fell  loosely  at  his  side.  He  stared  at  the  charming 
figure  in  front  of  him  with  a  sort  of  vacant  consterna- 
tion. She  threw  back  her  veil. 

The  face  that  was  thus  revealed  was  certainly  not  one 
to  disappoint  the  most  sanguine  expectations.  In  shape 
it  was  a  full  oval,  the  nose  delicate  and  pointed,  with  the 
tip  mobile  to  the  changing  play  of  the  lips  in  smiling  or 
speaking.  Her  chin  was  firm,  her  throat  solid,  round 
and  white.  It  was  the  face  of  one  capable  alike  of  luxu- 
rious indolence  and  dangerous  energy;  endowed  with 
dimples  for  mirth  and  with  clear-cut  lines  for  resolute 
purpose.  Sound  sense  and  accurate  memory  dwelt  in 
the  broad  brow ;  good  temper  in  the  curve  of  cheek  and 
eyelid ;  passion  in  the  full  lower  lip.  From  the  move- 
ments of  the  features  and  the  poise  of  the  head  upon  the 
neck  might  be  divined  that  she  was  proud,  generous,  or 
implacable,  as  the  whim  suited  her ;  but  the  dominant 
expression  at  present  was  one  of  archly  mischievous 
amusement. 

"You  don't  seem  glad  to  see  me,  Uncle  Francis  I"  she 
exclaimed,  making  a  moue  of  lovely  irony. 

No  answer  from  the  baronet. 

"  You  wanted  to  kiss  me  just  now ;  come — I  am 
ready." 

Sir  Francis  was  still  speechless. 


DUST.  79 

"  Why,  uncle,  how  unsympathetic  you  are  grown  all 
of  a  sudden  !  Don't  you  love  your  poor  widowed  niece, 
whom  you  haven't  seen  or  heard  of  for  ten  years  ?  You 
were  so  complimentary  and  affectionate  a  moment  ago  ! 
And  so  generous,  too,  uncle,"  she  added,  holding  up 
the  signed  agreement  between  her  white  forefinger  and 
thumb.  At  the  sight  of  this  the  baronet's  countenance 
beca,me  ghastly,  and  he  emitted  a  groan. 

Perdita,  Marquise  Desmoines,  threw  back  her  head 
and  laughed  with  all  her  might — a  laugh  full  of  liquid 
music.  "  You  are  a  most  incomprehensible  man,  uncle," 
she  declared,  when  she  had  recovered  herself.  "When 
my  veil  is  down  you  call  me  fairest  of  my  sex,  dearest 
creature,  and  sweetest  of  women ;  you  go  down  on  your 
knees  to  me,  devour  my  hand,  and  pay  me  ten  thousand 
a  year  to  live  in  London.  You  were  so  delightfully  im- 
petuous, in  short,  that  you  almost  frightened  me.  Who 
would  have  expected  such  ardor  from  a  man  of  your 
age  ?  Then,  when  the  veil  is  lifted,  you  sit  as  silent  and 
impassive  as  a  bag  of  guineas ;  you  glare  at  me  as  if  I 
were  a  gorgon.  I  hope  you  will  be  more  agreeable  when 
you  come  to  see  me  this  evening  ?  We  understand  each 
other,  you  know — don't  we  ? — eh,  uncle  ?"  And  she 
laughed  once  more. 

"Well,  well,  Perdita,"  said  the  baronet  at  last  in  a 
feeble  voice,  "you  are  a  monstrous  clever  girl,  and  you 
may  have  your  laugh  out.  As  for  that  paper,  you  may 
as  well  return  it  me  at  once.  You  have  your  jest ;  that 
was  mine." 

"If  all  your  jests  are  worth  ten  thousand  a  year,  I 
should  like  to  engage  you  as  my  court-jester,  uncle.  You 
will  be  worth  your  weight  in  silver  if  you  made  no  more 
than  six  jests  in  a  twelvemonth." 

"  Well,  well ;  but  give  me  the  paper ;  seriously,  I 
insist — " 

"You  insist  I     Oh,  uncle  1     Because  the  uncle  is  a 


80  DUST. 

jester,  it  does  not  follow  that  the  niece  must  be  a  fool. 
Besides,  you  have  owed  me  this  for  ten  years." 

"  Owed  it  you  ?    What  the  deuce — " 

"Ah,  uncle,  you  are  growing  old — you  are  losing  your 
memory.  Didn't  you  marry  me  to  my  poor  marquis 
without  a  dowry  ?  and  didn't  you  say  you  would  make  it 
up  to  me  when  times  improved  ?  Well,  in  five  or  six 
years  perhaps  I  may  give  you  this  paper  back ;  but  to  do 
so  now,  dear  uncle,  would  be  discourteous ;  it  would  be 
denying  you  the  privilege  of  doing  an  act  of  justice." 

"Upon  my  life,  madam,"  exclaimed  Sir  Francis,  pluck- 
ing up  some  resolution,  "you  may  keep  the  paper  or  not 
as  you  see  fit ;  but  the  engagement  is  not  worth  the  ink 
it 's  written  with ;  and  that  you  shall  find  out !" 

The  marquise  regarded  her  exasperated  relative  with 
a  charming  gleefulness.  "But  it  is  only  for  twenty  per 
cent,  you  know,  uncle,"  she  said;  "and  you  are  able  to 
put  out  money  at  double  that  rate — and  more,  I  dare 
say." 

"Zounds,  ma'am,  I  protest  I  am  ignorant  of  your 
meaning  !"  cried  the  baronet  indignantly. 

"I  mean  Raflett's,"  was  Perdita's  reply. 

Sir  Francis  changed  color  and  countenance  at  that 
word,  as  if  it  were  a  spell  that  threatened  his  life.  "You 
don't  mean  .  .  .  I  don't  know  .  .  ."he  began. 

"Come,  uncle,  we  are  people  of  the  world,  are  we 
not?"  said  the  marquise,  with  a  rather  comical  smile. 
"We  have  all  made  our  little  mistakes ;  I  don't  mean  to 
annihilate  you  ;  but  I  happen  to  know  all  about  Raffett's, 
and  have  a  fancy  to  make  you  pay  my  dowry  ;  not  that  I 
need  the  money,  but  because  I  dote  upon  abstract  jus- 
tice. Let  us  be  good  friends.  '  Birds  in  their  little  nests 
agree ;'  and  so  should  uncle  and  niece.  You  may  come 
and  pay  your  respects  to  me  to-morrow,  if  you  like — if 
you  can  control  the  impatience  that  was  consuming  you 
ten  minutes  ago  1  I  have  several  things  to  talk  over  with 


DUST.  81 

you.  I  have  taken  a  house  in  Red  Lion  Square  for  the 
present ;  London  will  not  hear  of  me  until  next  winter. 
I  am  only  just  become  a  disconsolate  widow,  and  mean 
to  behave  accordingly." 

Sir  Francis  sighed,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  resigns 
himself  to  the  rigor  of  fate. 

"And  you  are  really  going  to  remain  in  England  ?"  he 
said. 

"As  long  as  it  amuses  me.  Paris  is  dull  without  the 
emperor.  Besides — but  you  shall  hear  the  rest  to- 
morrow." She  rose  to  go. 

At  this  juncture  Catnip  tapped  at  the  door  and  put  in 
his  head. 

"A  gentleman  to  see  you,  Sir  Francis." 

"  What  is  his  name  ?" 

"Mr.  John  Grant,  Sir  Francis." 

"  Who  ?" 

"Mr.  John  Grant,  Sir  Francis." 

"I  don't  know  him,"  said  the  baronet.  "However, 
let  him  enter." 

The  Marquise  Desmoines,  going  out,  met  Mr.  John 
Grant  in  the  passage,  which  was  narrow.  He  ceremo- 
niously made  room  for  her  to  pass  ;  glanced  after  her  for 
a  moment,  and  then  went  into  the  baronet's  room. 


CHAPTEE    IX. 

WE  may  assume,  for  the  present,  that  Mr.  Grant's  ob- 
ject in  calling  upon  Sir  Francis  Bendibow  was  to  make 
arrangements  whereby  the  bank  might  charge  itself 
with  the  investment  and  care  of  his  property.  Mean- 
while we  shall  have  time  to  review  what  had  been  hap- 
pening during  the  previous  week  at  Mrs.  Lockhart's. 
Philip  Lancaster  and  Mr.  Grant,  having  passed  their  first 
night  at  the  "Plough  and  Harrow,"  returned  to  the 
widow's  with  their  luggage  the  next  morning.  Their 
reception  on  this  occasion  was  much  more  cordial  and 
confident  than  it  had  been  the  day  before.  The  chance 
which  had  brought  Lancaster  into  relations  with  the 
family  of  the  gallant  old  soldier,  whose  body  he  had 
rescued  from  an  unmarked  grave,  gave  him  a  lien  upon 
the  interest  and  gratitude  of  the  two  women  such  as  he 
might  not  otherwise  have  acquired  at  all.  The  whole 
history  of  his  acquaintance  with  Major  Lockhart  had  to 
be  told  many  times  over  to  listeners  who  could  never 
hear  it  often  enough ;  and  the  narrator  ransacked  his 
memory  to  reproduce  each  trifling  word  and  event  that 
had  belonged  to  their  intercourse.  The  hearers,  for  their 
part,  commented  on  and  discussed  the  story  with  a  mi- 
nuteness so  loving  and  unweariable  as  to  move  Lancaster 
to  say  privately  to  Mr.  Grant,  "Damme,  sir,  if  it  doesn't 
make  me  wish  that  I  had  been  the  Major,  and  the  Major 
me.  I  shall  never  have  a  widow  and  daughter  to  mourn 
me  sol" 

"It  is  one  of  the  ills  of  this  life,"  Mr.  Grant  returned 
with  a  smile,  "that  while  your  mourners  are  your  only 


DUST.  83 

honest  flatterers,  their  flattery  always  comes  a  day  too 
late.  If  you  had  been  the  Major  you  would  have  missed 
hearing  his  praises.  Being  yourself,  you  miss  the  praises 
themselves ;  but  upon  the  whole  I  think  you  have  the 
best  of  it.  The  love  of  these  good  women  for  their  de- 
parted father  and  husband  is  like  yonder  ray  of  sunshine 
which  falls  upon  his  portrait.  It  falls  only  there,  but  see 
how  it  brightens  and  warms  the  whole  room — and  your 
own  countenance,  I  fancy,  especially.  In  some  measure, 
sir,  you  are  heir  of  that  wealth  of  affection  which  was  the 
Major's  while  he  lived.  Your  news  of  him  has  partly 
made  you  his  substitute  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  loved 
him.  Non  omnis  moriatur." 

"I  wish  you  would  take  my  poem  in  hand  and  put 
some  poetry  into  it.  'Tis  true  the  wreath  of  fame,  as  well 
as  the  brand  of  infamy,  is  laid  only  on  dead  brows.  If  a 
man  could  but  return  to  life  long  enough  to  admire  his 
own  statue,  or  read  his  damnation  in  the  Quarterly  /" 

"  The  damnation  is  swifter  of  foot  than  the  statue,  and 
sometimes  overtakes  us  on  this  side  of  the  grave,"  said 
Mr.  Grant.  "  But  your  aspiration  may  be  realized.  I 
have  known  the  dead  to  come  to  life." 

"  To  find,  probably,  that  the  reality  of  dead  features  is 
less  comely  than  the  remembrance  ?" 

"As  for  that,  the  dead  man,  if  he  be  wise,  will  so  dis- 
guise himself  as  to  avoid  recognition.  He  will  renew  his 
life  only  so  far  as  to  be  a  spectator,  not  a  participant.  So 
that,  after  all,  he  is  not  himself  again,  nor  any  other  man 
either,  and  that  is  the  same  as  to  say  that  he  is  nobody, 
which  is  as  much  as  a  dead  body  has  any  right  to  be." 

"I'm  not  sure  of  that,"  said  Lancaster,  folding  his 
arms  and  leaning  back  his  head.  "There  is  a  fellow  in 
Weimar  by  the  name  of  Goethe — you  may  have  heard  of 
him — who  has  written  a  poem  called  'Faust.'  Faust 
comes  back  to  life,  or  to  youth,  which  amounts  to  the 
same  thing,  and  proves  to  be  anything  but  a  mere  spec- 


84  DUST. 

tator.  He  gets  caught  in  a  love-scrape,  and  there  is  the 
devil  to  pay.  There  is  something  attractive  in  this  hu- 
man life  which  grapples  us  whether  we  will  or  no,  and 
makes  us  dance  to  one  tune  or  another.  On  second 
thoughts  I  withdraw  my  aspiration ;  one  life  is  enough 
for  me,  and  may  be  too  much.  To  live  again  would  be  to 
wear  the  same  old  cap  and  bells,  only  jingling  them  to 
another  measure.  No  man  with  any  self-respect  or  sense 
of  the  ridiculous  would  do  it." 

"I  apprehend  you  may  be  familiar  with  an  earlier 
work  of  M.  Goethe's,  which  I  also  have  read,  called  the 
'  Sorrows  of  Werther. '  But  I  question  seriously  whether 
mankind  are  really  the  poor  puppet-show  that  you  speak 
of.  Life  is  unreal  and  bootless  only  so  long  as  you  make 
yourself  the  centre  and  hero  of  it.  As  soon  as  you  begin 
to  help  on  the  others  with  their  parts,  both  they  and  you 
cease  to  be  puppets.  For  no  man  can  live  in  himself, 
but  only  in  his  acts  ;  and  if  his  acts  are  just,  so  much  the 
more  fragrantly  will  they  survive  him." 

"  I  believe  that  theoretically ;  but  practically  I  am  per- 
suaded that  to  fall  passionately  in  love  is  the  only  way  to 
become  alive :  and  selfishness  is  the  very  essence  of  love." 

"  Ha  1"  ejaculated  Mr.  Grant  stroking  his  chin.  "  You 
have  been  in  love  no  doubt  ?" 

"I  have  been  like  other  men,  or  as  much  worse  than 
the  average  as  my  intellectual  capacity  may  be  superior 
to  theirs.  But — no  ;  I  have  never  been  alive  in  the  sense 
I  speak  of." 

" Too  unselfish,  eh?" 

"Well — not  quite  selfish  enough,  I  suppose;  or  too 
cautious  to  venture  on  a  final  plunge  into  the  abyss.  The 
puppet  business  is  less  arduous,  and  gives  a  man  a  better 
opinion  of  himself,  by  lowering  his  opinion  of  his  fellow- 
actors." 

"Hal  and  it's  too  late  to  expect  you  to  lose  your 
caution,  now,  of  course?" 


DUST.  85 

"I  have  experimented  too  much !"  replied  Lancaster, 
getting  up  and  going  to  the  window. 

Mr.  Grant  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  and  said  nothing. 

Things  went  on  very  quietly  in  the  old  brick  house. 
Both  the  older  and  the  younger  man  were  regular  in 
their  habits,  and  gave  their  hostesses  no  trouble.  In  the 
mornings  after  breakfast,  Lancaster,  who  was  of  an  ath- 
letic complexion,  took  a  walk  of  an  hour  or  two  along 
the  London  road,  returning  toward  noon,  and  shutting 
himself  up  in  his  room,  where  he  occupied  himself  in 
writing.  Mr.  Grant  commonly  spent  the  forenoon  in- 
doors, either  busying  himself  about  his  private  affairs,  or 
reading,  or  chatting  intermittently  with  Mrs.  Lockhart 
or  Marion,  as  they  passed  in  and  out  of  the  sitting-room. 
In  the  afternoon  he  sometimes  walked  out  to  get  the  air, 
and  may  occasionally  have  ridden  a  horse  as  far  as  Lon- 
don. But  the  after-dinner  hours  were  the  pleasantest  of 
the  day,  from  a  social  point  of  view.  Neither  Mr.  Grant 
nor  Lancaster  were  heavy  drinkers,  and  seldom  remained 
at  table  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  the  ladies 
had  left  it.  Then  the  four  remained  together  in  the  sit- 
ting-room till  bed-time ;  sometimes  playing  cards,  as  was 
the  custom  of  the  time ;  sometimes  content  to  entertain 
one  another  with  conversation ;  sometimes  having  music, 
when  Lancaster  would  second  Marion's  soprano  with  his 
baritone.  Mrs.  Lockhart  and  Mr.  Grant  had  most  of  the 
conversation  between  themselves ;  Lancaster,  save  upon 
the  special  topic  of  the  Major,  seldom  doing  more  than 
to  throw  in  an  occasional  remark  or  comment,  generally 
of  a  witty  or  good-humoredly  cynical  tendency  ;  Marion 
being  the  most  uniformly  silent  of  the  four,  though  she 
possessed  rare  eloquence  as  a  listener.  At  cards,  Mrs. 
Lockhart  and  Lancaster  were  apt  to  be  partners  against 
Marion  and  Mr.  Grant.  The  latter  would  then  display  a 
polished  and  charming  gallantry  toward  his  young  ws-et- 
tn's,  of  a  kind  that  belonged  rather  to  the  best  fashion  of 


86  DUST. 

the  last  century  than  to  this;  and  which  was  all  the 
pleasanter  because  it  was  more  the  reticence  of  a  sincere 
and  kindly  disposition  than  the  pretense  of  a  cold  and 
unsympathetic  one.  Marion  reciprocated  his  advances 
with  a  certain  arch  cordiality  which  characterized  her 
when  her  mind  was  at  ease  and  her  surroundings  agree- 
able ;  and  thus  a  species  of  chivalrous-playful  courtship 
was  established  between  the  elderly  gentleman  and  the 
young  gentlewoman,  which  was  a  source  of  mild  enter- 
tainment to  everybody.  The  widow  and  Philip  Lancas- 
ter, on  the  other  hand,  were  unscrupulously  romantic 
and  informal  in  their  intercourse ;  Philip  paying  rosy 
compliments  to  Mrs.  Lockhart,  with  earnest  gravity,  and 
she  expressing  her  affectionate  admiration  of  him  in  a 
manner  worthy  of  simple-hearted  Fanny  Pell.  In  a  cer- 
tain sense,  this  pairing-off  was  grounded  upon  a  natural 
and  genuine  attraction  between  the  respective  partners. 
For  there  was  a  child-like  element  in  Mrs.  Lockhart 
which  was  absent  from  her  daughter ;  and  Mr.  Grant 
had  a  boyish  straightforwardness  which  was  not  apparent 
in  Lancaster ;  and  thus  the  balance  was  better  preserved 
than  had  the  two  younger  people  contended  against  the 
two  elder.  The  former  were  old  where  the  latter  were 
young.  In  another  point  of  view,  the  normal  sympathy 
of  youth  with  youth,  conditioned  upon  the  lack  of  actual 
experience  and  the  anticipation  of  an  indefinite  future, 
was  not  to  be  denied ;  so  that  what  Lancaster  said  to 
Mrs.  Lockhart  may  have  had  an  oblique  significance  for 
Marion ;  and  Marion's  replies  to  Mr.  Grant  could  be  con- 
strued as  veiled  rejoinders  to  Lancaster.  At  the  same 
time  it  need  not  be  inferred  that  anything  serious  was 
intended  on  the  part  of  any  of  the  four. 

As  regards  success  in  card-playing,  it  commonly  fell  to 
Mrs.  Lockhart  and  Lancaster.  "And  yet  I  may  say, 
without  vanity,  that  I  was  accounted  a  fair  hand  at  it  in 


DUST.  87 

my  earlier  days,"  Mr.  Grant  once  remarked  apologetic- 
ally to  his  partner. 

"Cards  are  not  played  where  you  have  been  living?" 
Marion  suggested. 

"No;  at  least  I  devoted  myself  to  other  games,  and 
my  Hoyle  was  forgotten." 

"I  think  cards  are  less  popular  in  society  than  they 
used  to  be  five-and-twenty  years  ago,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Lockhart. 

"Oh,  it  is  in  many  ways  a  different  England  from  that 
old  one,"  Mr.  Grant  said,  stroking  his  chin  with  his 
thumb  and  forefinger.  "  A  great  rage  for  balloons  at 
that  time,  I  recollect.  And  for  boxing — there  was  the 
Prince  of  Wales  boxing  with  Lord  Hervey  one  night 
after  the  opera.  Dueling,  too;  why,  in  1786  'twas 
almost  a  distinction  for  a  man  not  to  have  fought  a  duel ; 
the  point  of  honor  was  much  oftener  vindicated  than  the 
point  of  the  argument.  No  wonder ;  to  be  drunk  at  a 
certain  hour  of  the  day  was  accounted  a  mark  of  breed- 
ing among  gentlemen.  Charles  Fox  was  a  terrible  fellow 
for  drinking  and  dicing;  used  to  see  him  at  Watthier's." 

"  Watthier's  ?  Mr.  Tom  Grantley  used  to  go  there  a 
great  deal,"  said  Mrs.  Lockhart,  blushing  a  little  after 
she  had  spoken. 

"Aye,  so  he  was  ;  I  have  seen  him,  too — a  very  hand- 
some man.  But  I  was  still  quite  young  when  he  died. 
You  knew  him,  madam?" 

"I  believe  mamma  knew  him  very  well,"  put  in 
Marion,  with  a  touch  of  mischief.  "He  was  to  have 
danced  at  your  wedding,  was  he  not,  mamma  ?" 

"He  was  very  kind  to  me  when  I  was  very  young  and 
foolish,"  replied  her  mother,  with  quiet  simplicity.  "  He 
was  not  in  England  when  I  married." 

"  Grantley  was  a  relative  of  mine — or  would  have 
been,  if  he  had  lived  ten  years  longer,"  Lancaster  re- 
marked. "  My  father  and  he  both  married  daughters  of 


88  DUST. 

old  Seabridge.  By-the-by,  didn't  he  have  a  daughter 
who  disappeared,  or  something  of  that  sort  ?" 

"It  was  a  son.  I  believe  he  was  a  very  promising 
young  gentleman,  but  he  came  to  a  sad  end.  Probably 
you  may  have  met  him,  Mr.  Grant  ?" 

"Never,  madam." 

"What  end  was  that  ?"  Lancaster  demanded. 

"  He  was  discovered  in  some  crime  about  money — em- 
bezzlement, I  think.  He  was  a  junior  partner  in  the 
bank;  Sir  Francis  Bendibow  trusted  him  entirely.  It 
almost  broke  his  heart  when  Charles  ran  away.  But  Sir 
Francis  behaved  very  nobly  about  it." 

"Ah!  he  had  been  recently  ennobled,  had  he  not?" 
inquired  Mr.  Grant  in  a  dry  tone.  But  if  he  intended 
any  innuendo,  Mrs.  Lockhart  did  not  perceive  it. 

"He  made  good  the  loss  out  of  his  own  private  pro- 
perty," she  went  on  ;  "  and  he  supported  Mrs.  Grantley 
as  long  as  she  lived.  Poor  woman,  she  was  his  sister, 
and  of  course  knew  nothing  about  her  husband's  wicked- 
ness." 

"  'Tis  indeed  a  romantic  story,"  said  Mr.  Grant  thought- 
fully. "  Sir  Francis,  I  presume,  took  all  means  to  trace 
the  fugitive  ?" 

"  I  think  he  did  all  that  he  honestly  could  to  let  him 
escape.  They  had  been  such  friends,  you  know.  Besides, 
if  the  unfortunate  young  man  had  any  feeling  left,  he 
must  have  been  punished  enough  in  losing  his  honor  and 
his  family." 

"  Ha !  no  doubt.   He  has  never  been  heard  from  since?" 

"  No ;  except  that  Sir  Francis  gave  me  to  know  that 
he  died  a  few  years  afterwards." 

"I  don't  believe  that  Sir  Francis  Bendibow  was  so 
wonderfully  generous,"  exclaimed  Marion,  who  had  been 
manifesting  some  signs  of  restiveness.  "  You  always 
think  a  person  is  good  if  they  say  they  are.  I  dare  say 
the  Bendibows  were  very  grateful  to  Charles  Grantley  for 


DUST  89 

marrying  into  their  family  ;  he  had  earls  and  barons  for 
his  kinsmen,  and  the  Bendibows  have  always  courted  the 
great.  As  to  Sir  Francis,  'tis  true  his  manners  are  very 
soft  and  courteous ;  but  my  father  has  told  me  he  was 
very  unsteady  in  his  youth,  and  I  think  my  father  meant 
more  than  he  said." 

"Yet,  admitting  that,  still  the  defaulter  would  not  be 
excused,"  observed  Mr.  Grant. 

"Since  he  was  not  brought  to  his  trial,  it  cannot  be  said 
how  much  or  how  little  he  was  a  criminal,"  returned 
Marion,  turning  her  eyes  upon  the  speaker  and  kindling 
with  her  cause.  "He  was  the  son  of  a  man  who  had 
nothing  ignoble  in  him,  whatever  else  he  may  have  had. 
You  have  told  me  that  yourself,  mother.  And  his 
mother  was  noble  of  birth,  and  I  have  heard,  noble  of 
nature,  too." 

"lean  confirm  you  in  that,"  said  Lancaster.  "My 
father  used  to  say  that  if  Edith  Seabridge  had  been  born 
a  man  instead  of  a  woman,  she  would  have  made  herself 
the  foremost  man  in  England.  But  it  showed  no  less 
nobleness  in  her  to  give  up  everything  to  the  love  and 
service  of  her  husband." 

"And  the  son  of  such  a  father  and  mother  should  not 
be  judged  a  thief  and  coward  except  upon  clear  evi- 
dence," Marion  continued,  acknowledging  Lancaster's 
support  only  by  a  heightened  color.  "  He  died  before  I 
was  born,  I  suppose,  but  I  have  always  thought  that  per- 
haps he  was  not  so  much  to  blame — not  in  any  dastardly 
way,  I  mean.  He  was  not  a  rake  and  a  gambler  as  Sir 
Francis  was  ;  but  a  man  who  cared  for  learning,  and  for 
freedom,  and  the  thoughts  that  make  people  better.  'Tis 
not  that  kind  of  man  that  would  steal  money  for  himself: 
if  he  committed  a  crime,  I  can  only  think  it  must  have 
been  for  the  good  of  some  one  he  loved — not  for  his  own 
good.  You  say  he  and  Sir  Francis  were  dear  friends ; 
perhaps  it  was  for  Sir  Francis'  own  sake  that  he  did  it — 


90  DUST. 

to  help  him  through  some  strait.  And  then  it  would  be 
no  wonder  that  Sir  Francis  let  him  escape  so  easily  1" 

"But,"  said  Mr.  Grant,  who  had  listened  with  atten- 
tion to  Marion's  advocacy,  with  a  curious  smile  occa- 
sionally glimmering  across  his  face,  "but,  my  dear,  that 
is  a  doubtful  cause  that  can  be  maintained  only  on  the 
discredit  of  the  other  side.  How  could  this  man  have 
embezzled  for  the  benefit  of  Sir  Francis  if,  as  I  am  given 
to  understand,  he  absconded  with  the  proceeds  of  his 
robbery  ?" 

"  No  one  knows  whether  he  had  the  money  with  him," 
answered  Marion,  driven  to  bay.  "All  that  is  known  is, 
that  he  disappeared,  and  that  Sir  Francis  said  the  bank 
was  robbed.  You  say  that  Sir  Francis  replaced  the  loss 
from  his  private  purse ;  but  perhaps  his  purse  had  first 
been  filled  for  him  by  the  very  man  he  denounced  as  a 
defaulter  I" 

At  this  audacious  hypothesis  Mr.  Grant  laughed, 
though  with  so  kindly  an  expression  that  Marion  could 
not  feel  she  was  being  ridiculed.  "  You  go  near  to  make 
me  wish,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "that  I  might  be  unjustly 
accused,  if  I  might  hope  to  have  you  for  my  defender." 

"  How  fortunate,  then,  was  this  questionable  cousin  of 
mine,  to  have  made  good  his  embezzlement  and  his  es- 
cape, and  withal  to  have  found  such  a  defender  I"  said 
Lancaster.  "  You  see,  Miss  Lockhart,  my  cousinhood 
with  him  allows  me  the  liberty  of  reviling  him  quietly  if 
I  choose.  Whatever  your  cousin  has  done,  you  are  liable 
to  do  yourself ;  so  I  am  only  whipping  myself  across  my 
cousin's  back." 

"If  you  need  whipping  at  all,  why  don't  you  whip 
yourself  directly  ?"  Marion  demanded,  quick  to  resent 
whatever  seemed  to  her  patronizing  or  artificial  in  an- 
other's tone. 

"Oh,  Marion!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lockhart,  under  her 
breath. 


DUST.  01 

"I  only  meant,"  said  Lancaster  smiling,  "that  when- 
ever I  hear  of  a  man  committing  a  crime,  I  have  a  fellow- 
feeling  for  him  :  I  believe  there  is  the  making  of  a  capital 
criminal  in  me,  if  I  am  only  given  fair  opportunities." 

It  was  not  the  first  time  Lancaster  had  spoken  in  this 
way,  and  Marion  had  not  made  up  her  mind  how  to  un- 
derstand him.  She  looked  away  and  made  no  reply. 

After  a  moment  Mr.  Grant  said,  "  You  spoke  of 
Charles  Grantley  having  left  a  family  behind  him ;  is  one 
to  infer  from  that  there  were  children  ?" 

"  There  was  a  daughter,  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Lockhart, 
relieved  at  the  change  of  subject ;  "didn't  you  know  her, 
Marion  ?" 

"  She  was  at  the  same  school  with  me  for  a  little  while ; 
but  she  was  much  older  than  I;  she  was  just  leaving 
when  I  began.  She  was  very  pretty  and  very  genteel ; 
much  more  genteel  than  I  ever  thought  of  being.  She 
never  spoke  to  me  but  once,  and  then  she  told  me  to  go 
up-stairs  and  fetch  her  slippers." 

"Did  you  obey  ?"  asked  Lancaster. 

"  No.  At  first  she  looked  at  me  very  indignantly ;  but 
soon  she  laughed  and  said,  '  You  don't  mind  me,  because 
I  am  a  woman ;  but  the  day  will  come  when  you  will 
fetch  a  man's  slippers  for  him,  and  kiss  them  after  he  has 
put  them  on.'  She  was  not  like  any  other  girl  I  ever 
saw ;  but  almost  every  one  was  fond  of  her ;  she  could  do 
so  much — and  yet  she  was  always  waited  on." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  how  she  turned  out.  She  evi- 
dently had  a  character,"  remarked  Lancaster. 

"  She  married  very  well,  I  believe,"  said  Mrs.  Lockhart. 

"Yes  ;  he  was  three  times  her  age,  and  very  rich,  and 
so  fond  of  her  that  he  didn't  care  whether  her  name  was 
Bendibow  or  Grantley,"  rejoined  Marion,  rather  harshly. 
"  She  was  always  called  Miss  Bendibow,  by  the  way,  and 
she  may  have  been  Sir  Francis'  real  daughter  for  aught 
I  know ;  she  seemed  to  think  so  herself,  and  she  certainly 


92  DUST. 

didn't  speak  of  any  other  father.  I  suppose  she  didn't 
much  care  who  her  father  was.  At  any  rate  she  became 
the  Marquise  Desmoines." 

Lancaster  moved  suddenly  in  his  chair,  and  seemed 
about  to  speak,  but  checked  himself. 

Mr.  Grant  took  snuff,  and  asked,  after  a  pause,  "You 
say  he  was  very  fond  of  her  ?" 

"Yes,  I  am  sure  he  was,"  said  Mrs.  Lockhart;  "he 
often  talked  to  me  about  her — for  he  was  a  friend  of  ours, 
and  used  to  visit  us  often  ;  because  my  husband  saved  his 
life  in  France,  when  the  Marquis  could  not  have  escaped 
but  for  his  assistance  and  protection  ;  and  after  that  he 
lived  in  London,  and  was  sometimes  so  poor  as  to  be 
forced  to  give  lessons  in  French  and  in  music  ;  for  all 
this  time  his  estates  in  France  were  in  jeopardy,  and  he 
did  not  know  whether  he  would  ever  recover  them.  But 
he  did,  at  last ;  and  then  he  entered  society,  though  he 
was  no  longer  a  young  man ;  and  it  was  then  that  he 
met  Perdita  Bendibow,  as  she  was  called.  He  proposed 
to  her  and  she  accepted  him ;  she  could  scarce  have 
helped  but  like  him,  I  am  sure.  After  their  marriage 
they  went  to  France,  but  I  have  heard  nothing  of  her 
since." 

"  There  is  one  thing  you  have  forgotten,  mamma,"  said 
Marion  ;  "it  is  another  proof  how  much  the  Marquis 
cared  for  her.  Sir  Francis  gave  her  no  dowry.  I  sup- 
pose he  thought  it  no  more  than  just  to  save  the  money 
out  of  what  her  father  had  cost 'him." 

"  It  is  not  charitable  to  say  so,  Marion ;  and  I  am  sure 
one  could  not  expect  that  Sir  Francis  would  give  her  a 
dowry,  when  her  husband  was  so  wealthy." 

"  So  the  girl  never  knew  her  real  father  ?  Well,  doubt- 
less it  was  better  so  ;  doubtless  he  would  have  wished  it 
so  himself,  if  he  retained  any  unselfish  and  noble  feelings 
— as  you,  my  dear  child,  have  been  charitable  enough  to 
imagine  may  have  been  the  case.  And  perhaps  Perdita 's 


DUST.  08 

lot  was  the  one  best  suited  to  her — she  being  as  you  have 
described  her.  For  my  part,  having  once  had  a  child  of 
my  own,  I  may  hope  that  she  is  happy — and  that  she  de- 
serves to  be."  Mr.  Grant  uttered  all  this  in  a  musing 
tone,  as  though  his  mind  was  dwelling  upon  other  things 
than  those  immediately  under  discussion  ;  but  there  was 
much  grave  tenderness  in  the  sort  of  benediction  with 
which  he  concluded.  It  made  Marion's  heart  go  out  to- 
ward him.  She  felt  sure  that  he  had  known  some  deep 
love,  and  grievous  sorrow,  in  his  day.  Now  he  was  a 
lonely  old  man,  but  she  resolved  to  be  in  the  place  of  a 
daughter  to  him.  She  leaned  her  cheek  upon  her  hand, 
and  fell  into  a  revery,  in  the  midst  of  which  the  clock 
struck  eleven. 

"Bless  me!  how  late  we  are  keeping  you  up,  Mrs. 
Lockhart,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Grant,  shutting  up  his  snuff- 
box and  putting  it  in  his  pocket.  u  The  truth  is,  I  have 
been  so  long  deprived  of  ladies'  society,  that  now  I  am 
prone  to  presume  too  much  on  my  good  fortune.  In 
future,  you  must  help  me  to  keep  myself  within  bounds. 
Good-night,  madam — I  am  your  most  obedient  servant. 
Good-night,  my  dear  Miss  Marion ;  your  father  must 
have  been  a  good  man  ;  I  wish  I  might  have  known  him. 
Mr.  Lancaster,  do  you  go  with  me?"  The  old  gentle- 
man was  always  thus  ceremonious  in  his  leave-takings. 

"  Yes,  I  'm  with  you,"  said  Lancaster,  breaking  out  of 
a  brown  study  into  which  he  had  subsided,  and  getting 
briskly  to  his  feet.  "  I  have  to  thank  you  for  a  strange 
story — an  interesting  one,  I  mean." 

"  Is  there  so  much  in  it  ?"  said  Marion,  as  she  gave 
him  her  hand. 

"  I  fancy  I  see  a  good  deal  in  it,"  answered  he ;  adding 
with  a  smile,  "  but  then,  you  know,  I  call  myself  a  poet  I" 

The  ladies  courtseyed ;  the  gentlemen  bowed,  and  went 
up-stairs  together. 


CHAPTEE  X. 

WHEN  Philip  Lancaster  and  Mr.  Grant  reached  the 
landing  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  they  faced  each  other 
for  a  moment ;  and  then,  by  mutual  impulse  as  it  were, 
Grant  tacitly  extended,  and  Philip  as  tacitly  accepted,  an 
invitation  to  enter  the  former's  room.  The  mind  resem- 
bles the  heart  in  this,  that  it  sometimes  feels  an  instinc- 
tive and  unexplained  desire  for  the  society  of  another 
mind.  Cold  and  self-sufficient  though  the  intellect  is,  it 
cannot  always  endure  solitude  and  the  corrosion  of  its 
unimparted  thoughts.  Therefore  some  of  the  most  per- 
manent, though  not  the  most  ardent  friendships  have 
been  between  men  whose  ground  of  meeting  was  exclu- 
sively intellectual.  But  men,  for  some  reason,  are  not 
willing  to  admit  this,  and  generally  disguise  the  fact  by  a 
plausible  obtrusion  of  other  motives.  So  Mr.  Grant,  as 
he  opened  the  door  (after  the  tacit  transaction  above- 
mentioned),  said,  "  Step  in,  Lancaster,  and  help  me 
through  with  a  glass  of  that  French  cognac  and  water." 

"  Thank  you,  I  will,"  Lancaster  replied. 

But  when  the  tumblers  were  filled  and  tasted,  and  the 
liquor  pronounced  good,  nothing  more  was  said  for  some 
minutes.  At  last  Lancaster  got  up  from  his  chair  and 
began  to  pace  about  the  room. 

"It  could  be  worked  up  into  a  good  story,  that  char- 
acter of  the  Marquise  Desmoines,"  he  said ;  "at  least  as 
I  conceive  it.  If  I  were  a  story  writer  instead  of  a  poet, 
I  would  attempt  it.  You  would  need  the  right  sort  of  a 
man  to  bring  into  collision  with  her.  While  I  was 
abroad,  I  knew  a  fellow  who,  I  think,  would  do.  Came 
94 


DUST.  95 

of  good  English  stock,  and  had  talent — perhaps  genius. 
His  father  was  a  poor  man,  though  of  noble  descent. 
Gave  his  son  a  good  early  training,  followed  up  by  the 
university  curriculum,  and  then  sent  him  abroad,  with 
two  or  three  hundred  a  year  income.  We  '11  call  him 
Yorke.  The  fellow's  idea  at  that  time  was  to  enter  the 
Church ;  he  had  eloquence  when  he  was  moved,  a  good 
presence,  and  a  sort  of  natural  benevolence  or  humanity, 
the  result  of  a  healthy  constitution  and  digestion,  and 
radical  ignorance  of  the  wickedness  of  this  world.  The 
truth  probably  was  that  his  benevolence  was  condescen- 
sion, and  his  humanity,  good  nature.  As  for  religion,  he 
looked  at  it  from  the  poetical  side,  saw  that  it  was  sus- 
ceptible of  a  pleasant  symbolism,  that  the  theory  of  right 
and  wrong  gave  plenty  of  scope  for  the  philosophical 
subtlety  and  profundity  in  which  he  imagined  himself 
proficient,  and  that  all  he  would  have  to  do,  as  the  pro- 
fessional representative  of  religious  ideas,  would  be  to 
preach  poetical  sermons,  be  the  expectancy  and  rose  of 
his  parishioners,  the  glass  of  goodness  and  the  mould  of 
self-complacency.  He  thought  everybody  would  be  led 
by  him  and  glorify  him,  that  his  chief  difficulty  would  be 
to  keep  their  piety  within  practical  bounds ;  and  that  the 
devil  himself  would  go  near  to  break  his  sinful  old  heart 
because  he  could  not  be  numbered  among  the  disciples  of 
so  inspired  a  young  prig.  It  was  a  lovely  conception, 
wasn't  it  ?  but  he  never  got  so  far  with  it  as  even  to  ex- 
perience its  idiocy.  His  first  bout  with  theological  and 
ecclesiastical  lore  was  enough  for  him.  He  found  him- 
self the  captive  of  a  prison  house  of  dogmas,  supersti- 
tions, and  traditions,  instead  of  the  lord  of  a  palace  of 
freedom,  beauty  and  blank  verse.  If  this  was  religion, 
he  was  made  for  something  better ;  and  he  began  to  look 
about  him  in  search  of  it.  There  were  plenty  of  ideas 
masquerading  about  just  then  in  the  guise  of  freedom, 
and  flaring  the  penny-dip  of  nationality  in  people's  faces ; 


96  DUBT. 

and  this  fellow — what 's  his  name  ? — Yorke,  gave  cour- 
teous entertainment  to  several  of  them.  A  German 
university  is  as  good  a  place  as  another  to  indulge  in 
that  sort  of  dissipation.  Freedom — that  was  the  word ; 
the  right  of  a  man  to  exploit  his  nature  from  the  top  to 
the  bottom — and  having  arrivjed  at  the  bottom,  to  sit 
down  there  and  talk  about  the  top.  He  had  two  or  three 
years  of  this,  and  arrived  at  such  proficiency  that  he 
could  give  a  reason  for  everything,  especially  for  those 
things  that  suited  his  inclination  of  the  moment ;  and 
could  prove  to  demonstration  that  the  proper  moral  atti- 
tude of  man  was  heels  in  the  air  and  head  downward. 
But  unluckily  human  nature  is  not  inexhaustible,  at  all 
events  in  the  case  of  my  single  individual.  The  prospect 
may  be  large  enough,  but  he  only  walks  in  such  few 
paths  as  are  comfortably  accessible  to  him ;  and  as  time 
goes  on,  his  round  of  exercise  gets  more  and  more  con- 
tracted, until  at  last  he  does  little  more  than  turn  round 
on  one  heel,  in  the  muddiest  corner  of  the  whole  estate. 
As  Yorke,  owing  perhaps  to  the  superior  intellect  and 
moral  organization  on  which  he  prided  himself,  arrived 
at  this  corner  rather  more  speedily  than  the  majority  of 
his  associates,  he  was  better  able  than  they  to  recognize 
its  muddiness :  and  since  mud,  qu&  mud,  was  not  irresis- 
tibly delightful  to  him,  and  he  was  not  as  yet  inextricably 
embedded  in  it,  he  thought  it  worth  while  to  try  and  get 
out  of  it ;  and  made  shift  tolerably  well  to  do  so,  though 
no  doubt  carrying  plenty  of  stains  along  with  him.  All 
this  time  he  had  been  secretly  giving  way  to  attacks  of 
poetry,  more  or  less  modeled  upon  the  Byron  and  Shelley 
plan.  One  day  he  took  these  scraps  out  of  the  portfolio  in 
which  he  had  hidden  them,  read  them  over,  thought  there 
was  genius  in  them  here  and  there,  and  made  up  his 
mind  to  be  a  great  poet.  There  are  always  poetasters 
enough ;  but  of  great  poets,  you  know,  there  are  never 
so  many  as  not  to  leave  room  for  one  or  two  more." 


DUST.  87 

"Here,  then,"  observed  Mr.  Grant,  who  had  followed 
this  history  with  complete  attention — indeed  he  was  an 
excellent  listener — "  here,  then,  you  and  Mr.  Yorke  were 
on  sympathetic  ground.  It  was  probably  at  this  epoch 
that  you  formed  his  acquaintance." 

"  I  came  to  know  him  very  well  then,  at  all  events," 
replied  Lancaster,  taking  a  sip  from  his  tumbler,  and 
then  resuming  his  walk  up  and  down  the  room.  "He 
had  a  curiously  mixed  character.  It  was  difficult  to  help 
liking  him  at  first  sight.  He  was  handsome,  cheerful, 
many-sided,  easy-natured ;  but  though  he  loved  his  ease, 
both  of  mind  and  body,  he  was  capable  on  occasion  of 
great  physical  or  mental  exertion.  He  was  more  com- 
prehensive than  commanding ;  but  perhaps  he  seemed 
less  strong  than  he  really  was,  because  he  doubted  the 
essential  expediency  or  virtue  of  any  particular  line  of 
conduct ;  and  would  rather  observe  the  leadership  of 
others  than  lead  himself.  He  had  great  intuitive  insight 
into  the  moral  constitution  of  other  people,  but  was  not 
so  keen-eyed  toward  his  own  structure ;  in  considering  an 
event,  he  had  the  habit  of  taking  it  upon  its  artistic  or 
symbolical  side — it  was  a  device  to  parry  the  touch  of 
realities.  But  often  he  allowed  his  imagination  to  get 
him  into  real  scrapes — imagine  himself  to  be  this  or  that 
person,  for  instance,  and  act  the  character  into  actual 
consequences.  He  had  a  quaint  way  with  him,  and 
shunned  giving  direct  pain,  or  coming  into  hostile  col- 
lision with  anybody ;  but  the  reason  of  that  was,  not  the 
generous  humanity  of  a  powerful  spirit,  but  the  know- 
ledge of  a  secret  weakness  that  Avas  in  him,  and  a  fear  of 
revealing  it.  His  weakness  was  a  passionate,  violent 
temper,  which,  once  he  had  given  way  to  it,  would  strip 
him  of  dignity  and  self-restraint,  and  uncover  all  manner 
of  hatreds,  revenges,  jealousies,  burning  envies,  and  re- 
morseless cruelties.  There  was  nothing  noble  in  his 
rage:  it  was  underhand,  savage,  and  malignant.  In 


98  DUST. 

fact,  subtlety  was  at  the  very  base  of  his  nature :  so  that 
he  would  constantly  be  secret  and  stealthy  when  there 
was  no  reason  for  it :  he  would  conceal  a  hundred  things 
which  he  might  more  conveniently  to  himself  have  left 
open ;  he  would  give  a  false  impression  when  he  might 
more  advantageously  to  himself  have  told  the  truth ; 
though  I  never  met  a  man  who  could  upon  occasion  speak 
the  naked  truth  more  boldly  and  recklessly  than  he.  I 
should  say  he  was  by  instinct  and  organization  a  coward, 
but  a  brave  man  by  determination.  Back  to  a  certain 
point  he  would  .yield  and  yield ;  but  then  he  would  leap 
out  and  fight  like  a  mad  tiger.  He  was  liable  to  wicked 
conceptions:  although,  whether  from  constitution  or 
caution,  he  commonly  did  what  was  right,  and  did  not 
like  to  be  suspected  of  acts  of  which  he  secretly  knew 
himself  either  guilty  or  capable.  In  short,  there  was  an 
ignoble,  treacherous  region,  underlying  his  visible  and 
better  character,  which  he  made  use  of  that  better  char- 
acter to  disguise.  The  peril  he  stood  in  was,  lest  the 
baser  nature  should  get  the  upper  hand ;  and  if  he  was 
saved  from  that,  it  was,  I  should  say,  by  virtue  of  what 
may  be  called  his  genius.  It  was  his  good  genius  in  more 
senses  than  one.  It  filled  his  imagination  with  lofty 
images :  when  his  pen  was  in  His  hand  no  man  was  more 
pure-minded,  well-balanced  and  upright  than  he.  In 
those  moods  he  was  even  reverential,  which  in  practical 
affairs  he  never  was.  The  custom  of  those  moods  influ- 
enced him  like  association  with  good  men  and  women : 
or  like  some  beneficent  spell,  which  should  suspend  the 
action  of  a  poison  until  either  it  lost  its  virulence,  or  he 
had  recovered  strength  enough  to  disregard  it.  Have 
you  heard  enough  about  my  friend  Yorke  ?" 

In  putting  this  abrupt  question,  Lancaster  stopped  as 
abruptly  in  his  walk,  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  Mr.  Grant, 
who  lifted  his  face  and  met  the  look  thoughtfully. 

"  'Tis  a  portrait  not  devoid  of  life  and  substance,  and 


DUST.  99 

does  credit  to  your  discernment  more  than  to  your 
charity,"  he  replied.  "But  the  features  are  so  true  as 
to  be  in  a  measure  typical ;  I  have  met  men  who  resem- 
bled him,  and  therefore  I  may  modify  your  interpretation 
by  my  own.  With  all  his  sensitiveness  to  rebuke  and  his 
fair-seeming,  was  he  not  a  man  given  to  self-deprecia- 
tion?" 

"  Sometimes — yes." 

"The  issue  of  that  kind  of  vanity  which  would  simu- 
late what  is  dark  and  terrible,  to  make  the  hearers  stare. 
He  would  not  do  the  evil  that  he  uttered.  Besides,  he 
was  aware  of  a  certain  softness  or  womanishness  in  his 
nature,  which  his  masculine  taste  condemned,  and  which 
he  sought  to  rectify  at  least  in  words." 

"  But  that  would  show  a  fear  to  let  the  truth  about 
himself  be  known." 

"Aye  ;  and  a  moral  indifference  to  ill  repute.  On  the 
other  hand,  1  doubt  not  he  often  sinned  in  thought,  when 
a  physical  or  mental  fastidiousness  withheld  him  from 
fixing  his  thought  in  action.  As  to  his  genius,  I  grant 
you  it  was  purgative  to  him  ;  but  less  because  it  put  him 
in  noble  company  than  because  it  gave  vent  through  the 
imagination,  and  with  artistic  balance,  to  the  wickedness 
which  might  else  have  forced  a  less  harmless  outlet. 
You  say  his  general  bearing  was  genial?" 

"Yes  ;  but  his  bearing  was  often  much  pleasanter  than 
his  feelings.  He  disliked  to  say  or  hear  ugly  words ; 
though  he  could  write  savage  letters,  and  could  imagine 
himself  being  very  stern  in  intercourse  ;  but  when  he 
came  to  the  point,  he  was  apt  to  sweeten  off — more,  I 
think,  from  dread  of  being  tempted  to  lose  his  temper 
than  from  natural  kindliness." 

"  You  judge  him  too  harshly,  because  too  minutely. 
Every  human  motive  has  its  shady  side.  He  was  a  man 
— if  I  may  hazard  an  opinion — who  was  never  so  gay  and 
good-humored  as  under  specially  trying  or  perilous  cir- 


100  DUST. 

cumstances:  upon  slighter  occasions  he  might  be  less 
agreeable." 

"You  have  chanced  upon  a  truth  there," said  Lancas- 
ter, apparently  somewhat  impressed  by  his  interlocutor's 
sagacity.  "We  were  once  in  a  boat  together  on  the  Lake 
of  Geneva,  and  a  storm  put  us  in  imminent  danger  of  our 
lives  for  a  couple  of  hours.  He  was  laughing  and  jesting 
all  the  time — not  cynically  or  mockingly,  but  from  genu- 
ine light-heartedness.  Perhaps  you  can  explain  that?" 

"  No  further  than  to  remind  you  that  great  or  dan- 
gerous crises  burn  the  pretense  out  of  a  man  and  leave 
him  sincere  :  and  then  it  will  be  known,  to  others  as  well 
as  to  himself,  whether  he  be  brave  or  craven.  In  the 
case  of  your  friend  Yorke,  with  his  dread  of  being  accused 
of  fine  feelings,  imminent  peril  would  annul  that  dread, 
because  he  would  perceive  that  no  one  about  him  was 
likely  to  be  in  a  state  of  mind  serene  enough  to  be  critical : 
therefore  his  self-consciousness  would  leave  him,  and  he 
would  become  his  spontaneous  self.  The  chief  vice  of 
your  friend  seems  to  me,  indeed,  to  be  that  same  self- 
consciousness.  He  would  be  for  ever  watching  and  specu- 
lating about  himself.  Pray,  did  you  consider  him  of  a 
fickle  disposition  ?" 

"He  has  given  many  instances  of  it,  both  in  mind  and 
heart." 

"Nevertheless,"  rejoined  Mr.  Grant,  taking  a  pinch  of 
snuff  between  his  fingers,  and  regarding  Lancaster  with  a 
smile  of  quiet  penetration,  "nevertheless  I  will  wager 
that  he  was,  at  bottom,  no  more  fickle  than  you  or  I. 
His  fickleness  was  of  the  surface  merely ;  within,  he  was 
perhaps  more  constant  than  most  men." 

"You  speak  confidently,  sir." 

"Nay,  I  am  no  conjuror,  nor  no  dogmatist  either.  Your 
friend's  character  is,  in  reality,  not  quite  so  complex  as 
it  appears.  What  are  its  main  elements?  Powerful 
imagination,  independence,  affability,  love  of  approba- 


DUST.  101 

tion,  evidenced  by  the  pride  that  veils  it ;  a  skeptical 
habit  of  conversation,  to  conceal  a  perhaps  too  credulous 
faith,  unweariable  spiritual  curiosity,  noble  ideals ;  mo- 
desty, unless  depreciated,  sensitiveness  to  beauty,  and 
docility  unless  opposed.  That  enumeration  might  be 
condensed,  but  let  it  pass.  Here,  then,  we  have  a  man 
open  to  an  unusual  variety  of  impressions,  and  fond  of 
experimenting  on  himself;  in  the  habit,  therefore,  of 
regarding  himself  as  a  third  person.  What  more  probable 
than  that  such  a  man  should  imagine  changes  in  his  be- 
liefs or  affections,  and  should  amuse  himself  by  acting  as 
if  those  changes  were  actual?  Yet,  when  it  came  to 
some  vital  matter,  his  deeper-rooted  sense  of  right  and 
justice  would  take  the  reins  again,  and  curb  the  vagaries 
of  his  fancy." 

"But  it  might  happen,"  said  Lancaster,  "that  some 
person  became  involved  in  this  amusing  experiment  of 
his,  who  should  mistake  the  experiment  for  earnest. 
What  would  my  friend's  sense  of  right  and  justice  have 
to  say  to  that  ?" 

"E"ay,  that  lies  between  him  and  his  conscience," 
quoth  Mr.  Grant,  applying  the  pinch  of  snuff  to  his  nos- 
trils, "and  you  and  I  have  no  concern  with  it." 

Lancaster  took  a  couple  of  turns  up  and  down  the 
room,  and  then  seated  himself  in  a  chair  at  the  opposite 
side  of  the  table.  "Enough  about  my  friend  Yorke," 
he  said ;  "  between  your  analysis  and  mine,  he  has  grown 
too  big  for  his  share  in  the  story.  What  I  intended  was 
to  bring  him  into  relations  with  a  woman  who  should  be 
a  match  for  him :  and  this  Marquise  Desmoines,  as  I  con- 
ceive her,  will  answer  the  purpose  as  well  as  another. 
Even  while  yet  a  girl  at  school,  she  had,  as  Marion's 
anecdote  showed,  the  instinct  of  woman's  power  and 
conquest.  She  had  already  divided  the  human  race  into 
male  and  female,  and  had  appraised  the  weapons  avail- 
able on  her  side.  She  had  perceived  that  the  weak  point 


103  DUST. 

of  woman  is  the  heart,  and  was  resolved  to  fence  her  own 
with  triple  steel.  To  marry  a  rich  foreign  nobleman  of 
more  than  thrice  her  age  was  precisely  her  affair.  She 
would  have  the  world  before  her,  as  well  as  at  her  feet. 
She  was — I  imagine  her  to  have  been — beautiful,  dim- 
pled, luxurious,  skeptical,  and  witty.  She  was  energetic 
by  nature,  selfish  by  philosophy,  clever  and  worldly-wise 
by  training.  She  could  appreciate  you  like  a  friend,  rally 
you  like  a  critic,  flatter  and  wheedle  you  like  a  mistress. 
She  would  caress  you  one  moment,  scoff  at  you  the  next, 
and  put  you  in  the  wrong  be  your  argument  what  it 
might.  She  could  speak  in  double  meaning,  startle  you, 
deceive  you,  and  forgive  you.  She  was  fond  of  intrigue 
for  its  own  sake,  fertile  in  resources  and  expedients ;  she 
was  willful  and  wayward  from  calculation,  and  danger- 
ous at  all  times.  She  was  indolently  despotic,  fond  of 
playing  with  her  sensations,  and  amusing  herself  with 
her  passions.  She  was  the  heroine  of  a  hundred  perilous 
anecdotes,  which  showed  rather  the  audacity  of  genius 
than  commonplace  impropriety.  She  could  say  with 
grace  and  charm  things  that  no  other  woman  could  say 
at  all.  She  could  assume  a  fatal  innocence  and  sim- 
plicity ;  and  to  have  seen  her  blush  was  an  unforgetable 
experience  in  a  man's  life.  Physical  exercise,  especially 
dancing  and  riding,  were  indispensable  to  her ;  her  toilets, 
baths,  clothes,  and  equipment  were  ideals  of  luxury. 
She  was  superstitious,  because  she  believed  in  no  re- 
ligion ;  indifferent  to  inflicting  suffering,  because  never 
suffering  herself ;  but  she  loved  the  pleasure  of  pleasing, 
was  kindly  in  disposition,  mindful  of  benefits  as  well  as 
of  injuries ;  and  in  her  loftier  moods  she  could  be  royally 
or  savagely  generous,  as  well  as  fiercely  implacable.  She 
had  a  lawyer's  head  for  business;  was  a  better  com- 
panion for  men  than  for  women;  was  even  capable  of 
genuine  friendship,  and  could  give  sound  and  honest  ad- 
vice :  and  it  was  at  such  times  that  the  real  power  and 


DUST.  103 

maturity  of  her  understanding  were  revealed.  That  is 
the  sort  of  woman  that  the  plot  of  my  story  requires  her 
to  have  been.  When  Yorke  met  her,  she  was  the  Circe 
of  a  distinguished  company  of  noblemen,  authors,  actors, 
artists,  abbes,  soldiers,  wits,  and  humorists ;  all  of  whom, 
by  her  magic,  she  could  cause  to  assume  the  forms  of 
turkey-cocks,  magpies,  poodles,  monkeys,  hogs,  puppies, 
parrots,  boa-constrictors,  and  other  animals,  according 
to  their  several  dispositions.  But  Yorke  was  the  Ulysses 
upon  whom  her  spells  had  only  so  much  effect  as  to 
incline  him  to  spend  most  of  his  time  in  her  company." 

Here  Lancaster  paused,  and  drank  off  the  remains  of 
his  tumbler  of  brandy  and  water. 

"  Well  ?"  said  Mr.  Grant,  moving  the  bottle  toward 
him. 

"No  more,  thank  you,"  said  Lancaster. 

"You  are  not  going  to  leave  your  drama  just  as  the 
curtain  is  ready  to  go  up  ?" 

"  I  have  come  to  the  end  of  my  invention." 

"Ah!  I  should  scarce  have  thought  you  had  begun 
upon  it,  as  yet,"  returned  the  other  dryly. 

Lancaster  made  no  reply.  At  last  Mr.  Grant  said, 
"  Unless  my  genealogical  inferences  are  at  fault,  you  and 
Sir  Francis  Bendibow  should  be  of  kin." 

"It  is  one  of  the  impertinences  of  human  society," 
said  Lancaster,  with  a  twitching  of  his  eyebrows,  "  that 
whatever  filibuster  happens  to  marry  the  sister  of  your 
father  has  a  right  to  call  you  nephew.  It  might  as  rea- 
sonably be  decreed  that  because  I  happen  to  cut  the 
throat  of  some  hook-nosed  old  money-lender,  his  women 
and  children  would  have  the  right  to  style  themselves  my 
cousins  and  aunts.  That  law  might,  to  be  sure,  prove  a 
beneficial  one,  for  it  would  do  more  than  hanging  to  put 
a  stop  to  murder.  But  the  other  law  makes  marriage 
a  nuisance,  and  one  of  these  days  the  nephews  will 
arise  and  compel  its  repeal  at  the  sword's  point.  Mean- 


104  DUST. 

while  I  remain  the  baronet's  nephew  and  your  humble 
servant." 

"You  would  abolish  all  but  blood-relatives  then?" 
said  Mr.  Grant,  resting  his  elbows  on  the  arms  of  his 
chair  and  interlacing  his  fingers. 

"I  would  have  no  buts;  abolish  the  whole  of  them  !" 
exclaimed  Lancaster — "even  the  rich  uncles  and  the 
pretty  cousins.  Take  a  leaf  from  the  book  of  animals, 
and  let  each  human  creature  stand  on  his  own  basis  and 
do  the  best  he  can  with  it.  When  I  found  a  republic 
there  shall  be  no  genealogies  and  no  families.  So  long  as 
they  exist  we  shall  never  know  what  we  are  really  made 
of." 

"  The  Bendibow  Bank  is,  however,  a  highly  prosperous 
and  trustworthy  concern  ?" 

"You  must  get  my  uncle  to  sing  its  eulogies  for  you; 
I  know  nothing.  But  I  am  of  opinion  that  Miss  Marion 
Lockhart  has  an  intuition  for  detecting  humbugs.  That 
Charles  Grantley  affair  ...  is  none  of  mine.  But 
Sir  Francis  had  two  sides  to  him  in  his  youth,  and  there 
may  be  some  passages  in  his  account  book  that  he  would 
deprecate  publishing." 

"Ah !  I  had  contemplated  calling  at  the  bank  to-mor- 
row—  " 

"  Oh,  don't  interpret  my  prejudices  and  antipathies  as 
counsel  I"  interrupted  the  young  man,  throwing  back  his 
hair  from  his  forehead  and  smiling.  The  bank  is  as 
sound  as  the  Great  Pyramid,  I  doubt  not.  Bless  your 
heart,  everybody  banks  there !  If  they  ruin  you,  you 
will  have  all  the  best  folks  in  London  for  your  fellow- 
bankrupts.  I  'm  afraid  I  've  bored  you  shamefully,  but 
a  little  brandy  goes  a  long  way  with  me." 

"You  have  said  nothing  that  has  failed  to  interest 
me,"  returned  the  old  gentleman  courteously.  "As  you 
may  conceive,  I  find  myself  somewhat  lonely.  In  twenty 
years  such  friends  as  may  have  been  mine  in  England 


DUST.  105 

have  disappeared,  and  the  circumstances  in  which  those 
yeai-s  have  been  passed — in  India — have  precluded  my 
finding  others.  At  your  age  one  can  afford  to  wish  to 
abolish  kindred,  but  by  the  time  you  have  lived  thirty 
years  longer  you  may  understand  how  I  would  rather 
wish  to  create  new  kindred  in  the  place  of  those  whom 
fate  has  abolished  for  me.  Human  beings  need  one  an- 
other, Mr.  Lancaster.  God  has  no  other  way  of  minis- 
tering to  us  than  through  our  fellow-creatures.  I  esteem 
myself  fortunate,  therefore,  in  having  met  with  yourself 
and  with  these  kind  ladies.  You  cannot  know  me  as  the 
vanished  friends  I  spoke  of  would  know  me — my  origin, 
my  early  life,  my  ambitions,  my  failures ;  but  you  can 
know  me  as  an  inoffensive  old  gentleman  whose  ambition 
for  the  rest  of  his  life  is  to  make  himself  agreeable  to 
somebody.  If  you  and  I  had  been  young  men  together 
in  London  thirty  years  ago,  doubtless  we  might  have 
found  ourselves  in  accord  on  many  points  of  speculation 
and  philosophy  wherein  now  I  should  be  disposed  to 
challenge  some  of  your  conclusions.  But  intellectual 
agreement  is  not  the  highest  basis  of  friendship  between 
man  and  man.  I,  at  all  events,  have  been  led  by  experi- 
ence to  value  men  for  what  I  think  they  are,  more  than 
for  what  they  think  they  are.  I  will  make  no  other  com- 
ment than  that  on  the  brilliant  and  ingenious  .  .  .  con- 
fidence, shall  I  call  it  ? — with  which  }-ou  have  honored 
me  to-night.  If  it  should  ever  occur  to  you  to  present 
me  to  your  friend  Yorke,  under  his  true  name,  I  am  sure 
that  I  should  enjoy  his  acquaintance,  and  that  I  should 
recognize  him  from  your  description.  Perhaps  he  might 
be  able  to  reinforce  your  invention  as  to  the  Marquise 
Perdita.  Well,  well,  I  am  detaining  you.  Good-night !" 
Lancaster  colored  a  little  at  the  latter  sentence  and  a 
cloud  passed  over  his  face,  but  in  another  moment  his 
eyebrows  lifted  with  a  smile.  "  God  knows  what  induces 
me  to  masquerade  so,"  he  said.  "I  care  to  conceal  my- 


106  DUST. 

self  only  from  those  who  can  see  nothing  on  any  terms — 
which  is  certainly  not  your  category.  Let  Yorke  and 
Lancaster  be  one  in  future.  As  for  Perdita  .  .  .  there 
goes  twelve  o'clock !  I  was  startled  at  hearing  her  name 
to-night ;  she  has  just  returned  to  London  in  the  capacity 
of  widow.  It  only  needed  that  .  .  .  however,  what  is 
that  to  you  ?  Good-night." 

"  Perdita,  a  pretty  name,  is  it  not  ?"  said  Mr.  Grant 
musingly,  as  he  followed  the  other  to  the  door.  "  It 
makes  one  hope  there  may  be  some  leaven  of  Shaks- 
peare's  Perdita  in  her,  after  all." 

"  'Tis  an  ominous  name,  though — too  ominous  in  this 
case  for  even  Shakspeare  to  save  it,  I  'm  afraid,"  returned 
Lancaster.  With  that  he  went  out  and  left  Mr.  Grant  to 
his  meditations. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  next  day  Mr.  Grant  hired  a  saddle-horse,  and 
rode  up  to  London,  where,  among  other  business,  he 
made  the  call  at  Bendibow  Bank,  which  has  been  already 
mentioned.  His  affair  with  that  institution  having  been 
arranged,  presumably  to  the  satisfaction  of  both  parties, 
Mr.  Grant  set  out  on  his  return  home.  As  it  was  already 
six  o'clock,  however,  he  stopped  at  the  "Holy  Lands" 
hotel  in  the  Strand,  where  he  dined.  By  the  time  he  was 
ready  to  resume  his  journey  it  was  nearly  dark,  the  rather 
as  the  night  was  moonless,  and  the  sky  was  overlaid  with 
heavy  clouds.  Partly  by  chance,  partly  because  he  fan- 
cied it  would  save  him  some  distance,  he  took  the  north- 
ern or  Uxbridge  road,  instead  of  that  which  goes  through 
Kensington.  After  passing  the  northwest  corner  of  Ken- 
sington Gardens,  this  road  lay  through  a  region  which 
was,  at  that  epoch,  practically  uninhabited.  Mr.  Grant 
rode  easily  along,  absorbed  in  thought,  and  only  occa- 
sionally taking  note  of  his  direction.  He  was  a  practiced 
horseman,  and  riding  was  as  natural  to  him  as  walking. 
It  was  a  very  still  night,  though  a  storm  might  be  brew- 
ing; and  the  only  sounds  audible  to  Mr.  Grant's  ears 
were  the  steady  tramp  of  his  horse's  feet,  the  slight 
creaking  of  the  saddle,  and  the  rattle  of  the  bit  as  the 
animal  flung  up  his  head.  By-ancl-by,  however,  the  rider 
fancied  he  heard  the  noise  of  another  horse's  hoofs  beat- 
ing the  road  at  a  gallop,  and  coming  up  behind  him.  He 
drew  his  left  rein  a  little,  and  glanced  over  his  shoulder. 

Meanwhile,  at  Mrs.  Lockhart's  house  in  Hammer- 
smith, dinner  was  ready  at  the  usual  time ;  but  as  Mr. 
107 


108  DUST. 

Grant  did  not  appear,  it  was  resolved  to  wait  for  him. 
He  had  informed  Mrs.  Lockhart,  previous  to  setting  out, 
that  it  was  his  intention  to  go  to  London,  and  added  that 
he  might  be  detained  some  hours  by  business.  ~So  anx- 
iety was  felt,  therefore :  but,  as  Marion  observed,  dinner 
would  not  seem  like  dinner  without  Mr.  Grant ;  and  it 
was  not  worth  while  sitting  down  to  table  so  long  as  any 
chance  remained  of  his  being  present.  Accordingly,  the 
dishes  were  put  to  warm  in  front  of  the  kitchen  fire ;  and 
Marion  and  Lancaster  went  to  the  piano,  and  tried  to  set 
to  music  some  words  that  the  latter  had  written.  But 
singing  conduces  to  appetite ;  and  appetite  will  get  the 
better  even  of  sentiment.  When  more  than  half  an  hour 
had  added  itself  to  the  abyss  of  the  past,  it  was  generally 
admitted  that  Mr.  Grant  was  hopelessly  derelict,  and 
neglectful  of  his  social  duties :  the  dishes  were  brought 
in  from  the  kitchen,  and  the  trio  seated  themselves  at 
table,  with  Mr.  Grant's  chair  gaping  vacantly  at  them  all. 
Now,  whether  a  man  be  well  or  ill  spoken  of  behind 
his  back,  depends  not  so  much  upon  the  man  himself  as 
upon  those  who  speak  of  him ;  but  probably  the  worst 
thing  that  can  happen  to  him  is  not  to  be  spoken  of  at 
all.  Mr.  Grant  fared  well  in  all  respects ;  he  was  spoken 
of,  he  was  well  spoken  of,  he  was  well  spoken  cf  by  honest 
people ;  and  it  may  not  be  too  much  to  add  that  he  was 
not  undeserving  of  having  honest  people  speak  well  of 
him.  The  goodness  of  some  good  men  is  a  long  time  in 
getting  the  recognition  that  it  deserves ;  that  of  others  is 
appreciated  at  once ;  nor  does  it  follow  that  the  latter's 
virtues  are  necessarily  shallower  or  less  honorable  than 
those  of  the  former.  Ten  days  ago,  for  example,  Mr. 
Grant  had  been  as  good  as  non-existent  to  the  three  per- 
sons who  were  now  discussing  him  with  so  much  interest 
and  even  affection.  There  was  something  in  his  face,  in 
his  glance,  in  the  gradual,  kindly  brightening  of  his  smile, 
in  the  pleasant  melody  of  his  voice,  in  the  manly  repose 


DUST.  109 

of  his  general  walk  and  conversation,  that  inevitably 
inspired  respect  and  liking  in  such  persons  as  were  disin- 
terestedly susceptible  of  those  sentiments.  And  yet  Mr. 
Grant  was  far  from  being  handsome  either  in  face  or 
figure ;  and  no  one  knew  what  his  life  had  been,  what 
was  his  social  position,  whether  he  were  rich  or  poor,  or 
wherefore  he  was  living  in  lodgings  at  Hammersmith; 
none  of  which  subjects  of  inquiry  are  apt  to  be  disre- 
garded in  the  life  of  a  country  so  compact  and  inquisitive 
as  England.  But  even  in  England,  sheer  and  naked  indi- 
viduality has  vast  weight,  altogether  unaccountable  upon 
any  general  theory  whatever :  and  Mr.  Grant  was  in  this 
way  the  passive  subject  of  a  special  social  dispensation. 

"He  told  me  last  night,"  remarked  Lancaster,  "that 
he  had  been  living  in  India  for  the  last  twenty  years.  I 
had  been  puzzling  myself  whom  he  reminded  me  of — 
physically,  I  mean  ;  and  that  enlightened  me.  You  have 
probably  seen  the  man  I  mean,  Mrs.  Lockhart.  I  saw  him 
the  year  he  was  acquitted,  when  I  was  eight  or  nine  years 
old ;  and  I  never  forgot  his  face — Warren  Hastings." 

Mrs.  Lockhart  replied  that  she  had  never  seen  Mr. 
Hastings,  but  she  was  sure  Mr.  Grant  bore  no  resem- 
blance to  him  in  character.  Mr.  Hastings  was  a  cruel 
and  ambitious  man;  whereas  Mr.  Grant  was  the  most 
humane  man  she  had  ever  known,  except  the  Major,  and 
as  simple  as  a  child. 

"There  is  mystery  about  him,  too,"  said  Lancaster. 

"Not  the  kind  of  mystery  that  makes  you  suspicious 
though,"  said  Marion.  "  I  feel  that  what  he  hides  would 
make  us  like  him  better  if  we  knew  it." 

"  What  I  hide  is  of  another  color,"  observed  Lancaster. 

"  I  'm  sure  it  can  be  nothing  bad,"  said  Mrs.  Lockhart. 

Marion  broke  out,  "  So  am  I !  Mr.  Lancaster  thinks 
it  would  be  picturesque  and  poetical  to  be  wicked,  and  so 
he  is  always  talking  about  it.  If  he  had  really  done  any- 
thing wicked,  he  would  be  too  vain  to  make  a  mystery  of 


110  DUST. 

it ;  he  could  not  help  telling.  But  he  has  only  been  good 
so  far,  and  he  has  not  outgrown  being  ashamed  of  it.  If 
he  had  committed  more  sins,  the  people  in  his  poetry 
would  have  committed  much  fewer." 

When  Marion  struck,  she  struck  with  all  her  might, 
and  reckless  of  consequences.  Mrs.  Lockhart  sat  ap- 
palled, and  Lancaster  winced  a  little ;  but  he  was  able  to 
say  good-humoredly,  "I  shall  give  up  being  a  hypocrite  ; 
everybody  finds  me  out.  If  I  were  a  whited  sepulchre, 
detection  would  not  humiliate  me;  but  when  a  bottle 
labeled  '  Poison  '  is  found  to  contain  nothing  worse  than 
otto  of  roses,  it  can  never  hold  up  its  head  again." 

"  Anybody  can  say  what  they  please,"  rejoined  Marion ; 
"  but  what  they  do  is  all  that  amounts  to  anything." 

"  That  is  to  say  you  are  deaf,  but  you  have  eyes." 

"  That  is  a  more  poetical  way  of  putting  it,  I  suppose. 
But  some  words  are  as  good  as  deeds,  and  I  can  hear 
those." 

"  It  is  not  your  seeing  or  hearing  that  troubles  me,  but 
your  being  able  to  read.  If  I  had  only  been  born  an 
Arab  or  an  ancient  Hebrew,  I  might  have  written  with- 
out fear  of  your  criticism." 

"I  suppose  you  wish  me  to  say  that  I  would  learn 
those  languages  for  the  express  purpose  of  enjoying  your 
poetry.  But  I  think  you  are  lucky  in  having  to  write  in 
plain  English.  It  is  the  most  difficult  of  all  languages  to 
be  wicked  in — genteelly  wicked,  at  least." 

"  You  convince  me,  however,  that  it  must  have  been 
the  original  language  spoken  by  Job's  wife,  when  she  ad- 
vised him  to  curse  God  and  die.  If  she  had  been  as  much 
a  mistress  of  it  as  you  are,  I  think  he  would  have  done  it." 

"If  he  had  been  a  poet,  'tis  very  likely." 

"I  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Lockhart  with  gentle  simplicity. 
"  that  nothing  has  happened  to  Mr.  Grant." 

Lancaster  and  Marion  both  turned  their  faces  toward 
the  window,  and  then  Lancaster  got  up  from  the  table — 


DUST.  Ill 

they  had  finished  dinner— and  looked  out.  "It  has 
grown  dark  very  suddenly,"  he  remarked.  "I  fear  Mr. 
Grant  will  get  wet  if  he  does  not  return  soon." 

Marion  also  arose  and  stood  at  the  other  side  of  the 
window.  After  a  while  she  said,  "  I  should  like  to  be  out 
in  such  a  night  as  this." 

"  I  hate  darkness,"  returned  Lancaster.  "  Come  what 
come  may,  as  long  as  I  have  a  light  to  see  it  hy." 

"I  love  darkness,  because  then  I  can  see  my  mind. 
When  father  was  alive,  and  I  had  more  time  to  do  what 
I  wished,  I  used  to  lie  awake  at  night  as  much  as  in  the 
day-time." 

"  Your  mind  must  be  fuller  of  light  than  most  people's, 
if  you  can  see  it  only  in  the  darkness." 

"  I  am  light-minded — is  that  what  you  mean  ?" 

"No,  I  am  serious.  You  never  are.  serious  except 
when  you  are  angry." 

"  If  I  am  never  serious,  I  must  be  light-minded.  Very 
likely  I  am  light-headed,  too,  sometimes ;  mother  has 
often  told  me  so.  I  like  to  be  out  in  the  rain,  and  to  get 
my  feet  wet  and  muddy.  I  should  like  to  have  been  a 
soldier  in  my  father's  regiment ;  he  said  I  would  make  a 
good  soldier." 

"  And  shoot  Frenchmen  ?" 

"I  prefer  killing  with  a  sword.  Washing  dishes  and 
marketing  becomes  tiresome  after  a  while.  I  shall  pro- 
bably kill  the  baker  or  the  greengrocer  some  day ;  I  have 
a  terrible  tongue,  and  if  I  don't  let  it  have  its  way  once 
in  a  while  it  will  become  worse.  Hitherto  I  have  only 
broken  dishes ;  but  that  is  not  terrible  enough." 

"  I  '11  be  hanged  if  I  can  understand  you,"  said  Lan- 
caster, after  a  pause. 

"  You  are  such  a  handsome  man  you  don't  need  to  un- 
derstand people.  The  object  of  understanding  people  is 
to  get  the  better  of  them ;  but  when  one  is  handsome, 
people  open  their  doors  at  once." 


113  DUST. 

"  Then  why  don't  you  open  yours  ?" 

"  If  I  don't,  it  is  as  much  on  your  account  as  on  mine." 

"How  is  that?" 

"  When  I  tell  you  that,  I  shall  have  told  you  a  great 
deal.  But  why  didn't  you  protest  that  you  had  no  notion 
you  were  handsome,  and  that  I  was  a  flatterer  ?" 

"  I  know  I  'm  handsome,  and  I  'm  glad  of  it." 

"Do  you  often  speak  the  truth  like  that  ?" 

"You  get  more  truth  out  of  me  than  I  suspected  of 
being  in  me.  But  if,  some  day,  you  provoke  me  to  some 
truth  that  I  had  better  have  kept  to  myself,  it  will  be 
your  fault." 

"  I  don't  think  there  is  much  danger.  I  like  this  first 
truth  of  yours.  If  I  were  handsome  I  should  be  glad  of 
it,  too.  Ugly  women  are  suspicious,  designing  and  jea- 
lous. They  talk  about  the  charms  of  a  cultivated  intelli- 
gence being  superior,  in  the  long  run,  to  beauty.  But 
beauty  does  not  wait  for  the  long  run — it  wins  at  once, 
and  lets  the  cultivated  intelligence  run  on  to  Jericho,  if 
it  likes.  I  imagine  most  cultivated  intelligences  would 
be  thankful  to  be  fools,  if  they  could  afford  it." 

"  But  beauty  doesn't  always  imply  folly." 

"  Oh,  I  am  speaking  of  women  I" 

"  Thank  you.  But,  speaking  of  women,  what  have 
you  to  say  to  the  Marquise  Desmoines,  for  instance  ?" 

"  So  you  know  her  ?" 

"  I  heard  you  speak  of  her  last  night  as  being  both 
beautiful  and  clever." 

"  But  you  know  her  ?" 

"  I  ran  across  her  abroad,"  said  Lancaster,  with  an  in- 
different air.  But  before  saying  it  he  had  hesitated  for  a 
moment,  and  Marion  had  noticed  the  hesitation. 

"  How  did  you  like  the  Marquis  ?"  she  inquired. 

"He  was  a  very  distinguished  old  gentleman,  very 
punctilious  and  very  bilious.  He  always  wore  a  red 
ribbon  in  his  button-hole  and  sat  in  a  large  arm-chair, 


DUST.  113 

and  four  times  a  clay  he  had  a  glass  of  absinthe.  'Tis  a 
wonder  he  lived  so  long." 

"Oh,  did  he  die?"   . 

"He  is  dead." 

"  What  did  you  do  then  ?" 

"I  did  not  know  of  it  until  a  few  days  ago.  He  has 
been  dead  six  months." 

"  Then  Perdita  is  in  England!"  said  Marion  rapidly, 
meeting  Lancaster's  glance  with  her  own.  Except  when 
she  was  angry,  or  for  some  other  reason  forgot  herself, 
she  habitually  avoided  another  person's  glance.  For  she 
was  of  an  extremely  sensitive,  nervous  temperament,  and 
the  "personal  equation"  of  those  with  whom  she  con- 
versed affected  her  more  than  physical  contact  would 
afiect  other  people. 

At  this  point  the  dialogue  was  interrupted  by  a  startling 
glare  of  lightning,  succeeded  almost  immediately  by  a 
crash  of  thunder  so  loud  and  so  heavy  as  to  rattle  the 
window  in  its  frame  and  jar  the  floor  on  which  they 
stood.  Marion  laughed,  and  opening  the  window  leaned 
out.  Mrs.  Lockhart,  who  had  fallen  into  a  gentle  doze  in 
her  chair,  awoke  with  a  little  jump  and  an  exclamation. 

"Oh,  Marion  .  .  .  what  has  gone  off?  Mr.  Grant? 
"Why  is  the  window  open  ?  Dear  heart  I  is  that  the  rain  ? 
He  will  be  drenched  to  the  skin,  Mr.  Lancaster." 

"  So  will  you  if  you  don't  shut  the  window,"  said  Lan- 
caster to  Marion. 

She  looked  round  and  appeared  to  answer,  but  her 
words  were  inaudible  in  the  thunderpeal  that  accompa- 
nied them.  The  rain  drove  straight  downwards  with 
such  force  and  weight  that  the  drops  might  have  been 
liquid  lead.  The  sky  was  black. 

"  I  shall  take  an  umbrella  and  go  out  and  meet  him," 
Marion  was  now  heard  to  say. 

"  Oh,  my  child,  you  are  mad !"  cried  Mrs.  Lockhart. 
"Do  put  down  the  window,  Mr.  Lancaster." 


114  DUST. 

Lancaster  complied.  Marion  glanced  at  him  with  an 
odd,  quizzical  kind  of  a  smile.  He  did  not  know  what 
she  meant ;  but  he  joined  Mrs.  Lockhart  in  denouncing 
Marion's  project  as  impossible. 

."  He  would  be  as  wet  as  he  is  capable  of  being  before 
you  found  him,"  he  said;  "besides,  he  couldn't  use  an 
umbrella  on  horseback  ;  and  even  if  you  knew  where  he 
was  and  which  road  he  was  coming  by,  it 's  a  hundred  to 
one  you  'd  miss  him  in  a  night  like  this." 

"Lai  what  a  regiment  of  reasons!"  she  answered, 
with  her  short,  irregular  laugh.  "  I  only  wanted  a  reason 
for  going  out.  As  to  being  of  use  to  Mr.  Grant,  'twould 
be  but  a  chance,  of  course ;  but  so  is  everything  for  that 
matter." 

She  did  not  persist  in  her  intention,  however,  but 
began  to  move  carelessly  about  the  room,  and  made  no 
answer  to  several  remarks  that  her  mother  and  Lancas- 
ter addressed  to  her. 

"When  nearly  half  an  hour  had  passed  away,  her  bear- 
ing and  aspect  suddenly  changed ;  she  went  swiftly  out 
of  the  room,  shutting  the  door  behind  her.  Then  the 
outside  door  was  heard  to  open,  and  Marion's  step  going 
down  to  the  gate,  which  was  likewise  flung  back ;  then, 
after  a  minute's  silence,  the  sound  of  voices,  and  Lancas- 
ter, peering  out  of  the  window,  saw,  by  the  aid  of  an 
accommodating  flash  of  lightning,  Marion  and  Mr.  Grant 
(who  was  without  his  hat)  coming  up  the  paved  way  to 
the  porch. 

"  "What  a  strange  thing  I"  he  exclaimed.  "  How  could 
she  possibly  have  known  he  was  coming '?" 

"  Marion  has  wonderful  ears,"  said  Mrs.  Lockhart  with 
a  sigh,  as  if  the  faculty  were  in  some  way  deleterious  to  the 
possessor  of  it.  But  Lancaster  thought  that  something 
else  besides  fine  hearing  was  involved  in  this  matter. 

The  girl  now  came  in,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her  hair, 
face  and  shoulders  wet,  conducting  Mr.  Grant,  with  her 


DUST.  115 

arm  under  his.  He  was  splashed  and  smeared  with  mud 
and  looked  very  pale ;  but  he  smiled  and  said  with  his 
usual  courteousness :  "I  am  not  going  to  spoil  your 
carpet  and  chairs,  dear  madam.  I  do  but  show  you  my 
plight,  like  a  truant  schoolboy  who  has  tumbled  into  the 
gutter,  and  then  I  retire  for  repairs." 

"No:  you  shall  sit  down  here,"  said  Marion  deter- 
minedly but  quietly ;  and  in  despite  of  himself  she  led 
him  to  the  stuffed  easy  chair  which  her  mother  had  just 
quitted,  and  forced  him  into  it.  "Mr.  Grant  has  had 
some  hurt,"  she  added  to  the  others;  and  to  Lancaster, 
"  Go  up  to  his  room  and  bring  down  his  dressing-gown. 
Mother,  get  some  water  heated  in  the  kitchen.  I  will 
attend  to  him." 

Her  manner  to  the  old  man  was  full  of  delicate  and 
sympathetic  tenderness ;  to  the  others,  of  self-possessed 
authority.  Lancaster  went  on  his  errand  with  a  sub- 
missive docility  that  surprised  himself.  He  had  seen  a 
great  deal  of  Marion  in  the  last  few  hours ;  but  he  was 
not  sure  that  he  had  seen  into  her  very  far. 

When  he  returned  with  the  dressing-gown,  Marion  had 
got  Mr.  Grant's  coat  off,  and  was  wiping  the  mud  from  a 
bruised  place  on  his  right  hand  with  her  wetted  handker- 
chief. "Nothing  dangerous,  thank  God  !"  she  was  say- 
ing, in  a  soothing  undertone,  as  Lancaster  approached. 

"  You  got  a  fall  ?"  asked  the  latter  of  the  elder  man, 
who  nodded  in  reply. 

Marion  said  brusquely,  "  Don't  you  see  that  he  is  too  ex- 
hausted to  talk  ?  Wait,  and  you  will  know  everything." 

In  truth,  Mr.  Grant  appeared  a  good  deal  shaken, 
and  for  several  minutes  could  do  little  more  than  accept 
passively  the  ministrations  that  were  bestowed  upon  him. 
Marion  continued  to  direct  the  operations,  the  others 
assisting  with  abundant  good  will.  At  last  Mr.  Grant 
said: 

"  It  is  very  pleasant  to  find  you  all  so  kind— to  be  so 


116  DUST. 

well  taken  care  of.  I  fear  I  'm  ruining  your  chair,  Mr?. 
Lockhart.  There  was  really  no  need  for  this.  I  am  none 
the  worse,  except  for  the  loss  of  a  hat.  Thank  you,  my 
dear;  you  are  very  good." 

"  Have  you  had  your  dinner  V  inquired  Mrs.  Lockhart. 

"  Yes,  I  am  obliged  to  you,  madam.  I  was  belated, 
and  .  .  .  But  you  must  hear  my  adventure.  I  thought 
the  highwaymen  days  were  over  in  this  neighborhood." 

"I  wish  I  had  been  with  you!"  murmured  Marion 
resentfully. 

"  Highwaymen?  oh  1"  faltered  Mrs.  Lockhart. 

"  My  highwayman  was  not  so  ceremonious  as  the  best 
of  the  old-fashioned  ones,"  continued  Mr.  Grant  smiling. 
"He  came  upon  me  just  before  the  storm  broke.  I  heard 
his  horse  overtaking  me  at  a  gallop,  and  I  drew  aside  to 
let  him  pass.  But  he  rode  right  against  me — he  was 
mounted  on  a  very  powerful  animal — and  nearly  threw 
me  down.  As  I  turned  toward  him,  he  held  a  pistol  in 
his  hand,  and  fired  at  me.  The  ball  knocked  off  my  hat, 
and  missed  me.  I  had  a  heavy  riding-whip,  and  I  struck 
at  him  with  it.  I  think  I  must  have  hit  him  across  the 
wrist ;  at  all  events,  he  dropped  the  pistol.  Neither  of 
us  had  spoken  a  word.  It  was  at  that  moment  that  the 
first  flash  of  lightning  came.  It  showed  me  that  he  was 
a  large  man,  dressed  in  dark  clothes ;  he  put  his  arm 
across  his  face,  as  if  to  prevent  my  seeing  it.  The  thun- 
der was  very  loud,  and  my  horse  plunged  and  burst  his 
girths ;  and  I  slipped  to  the  ground.  What  with  the  rain 
and  the  noise,  and  the  suddenness  of  it  all,  I  was  con- 
fused, and  hardly  knew  what  happened  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. When  I  got  on  my  feet  again,  I  was  alone ;  my 
highwayman  had  disappeared ;  and  so  had  my  horse, 
though  I  picked  it  up  on  the  road  later." 

"  He  may  have  thought,  from  your  falling,  that  he  had 
not  missed  his  shot  after  all,"  said  Lancaster. 

"  It  was  the  lightning  that  frightened  him  away,"  said 


DUST.  117 

Marion.  "He  counted  on  darkness,  and  dared  not  risk 
recognition." 

"How  did  you  get  home?  did  you  have  to  walk?" 
asked  Mrs.  Lockhart. 

"Only  a  short  distance.  A  wagon  happened  to  come 
along,  and  the  driver  gave  me  a  lift  as  far  as  the  corner. 
And  there  Marion  met  me.  What  spirit  told  you  I  was 
coming,  my  dear  ?" 

Marion  replied  only  hy  a  smile. 

"It  seems  singular,"  remarked  Lancaster  "that  he 
should  have  ridden  at  you  and  fired  at  once,  instead  of 
going  through  the  customary  formality  of  inquiring 
whether  you  preferred  your  life  to  your  purse.  Those 
fellows  are  usually  more  cautious  for  their  own  sakes." 

"He  was  as  much  afraid  of  having  his  voice  heard  as 
of  having  his  face  seen,"  said  Marion.  "He  wished  to 
kill  Mr.  Grant  more  than  to  rob  him.  You  didn't  have 
much  money  with  you,  did  you  ?" 

"Not  much,  as  it  happened,  my  dear;  though,  as  I 
had  been  to  the  Bank,  whoever  had  taken  the  trouble  to 
follow  my  movements  might  have  inferred  that  I  did 
have." 

"  The  Bendibow  Bank  ?"  demanded  Marion. 

"  Yes ;  I  introduced  myself  to  your  friend  Sir  Francis." 

Lancaster  chanced  to  be  looking  at  Marion,  and  no- 
ticed a  troubled  expression  pass  across  her  face.  She 
laid  her  hand  lightly  on  Mr.  Grant's  shoulder,  and  passed 
it  down  his  arm ;  the  action  seemed  at  once  affectionate 
and  reproachful.  "  You  disapprove  of  that,  don't  you  ?" 
the  young  man  said  to  her,  smiling. 

The  question  appeared  to  annoy  her:  "I  am  glad  he 
got  home,"  she  said  coldly.  Then  she  got  up  and  went 
out  of  the  room 


CHAPTEE  XII. 

TOWARD  the  close  of  the  month,  Sir  Francis  Bendi- 
bow,  having  seriously  turned  the  matter  over  in  his  mind, 
wrote  a  note  to  his  solicitor,  Merton  Fillmore,  asking  him 
whether  he  could  spare  time  to  come  over  to  the  bank 
that  afternoon,  and  have  a  chat  with  him.  This  note  he 
dispatched  to  Mr.  Fillmore  by  a  private  messenger,  who 
was  instructed  to  wait  for  an  answer.  In  half  an  hour, 
the  messenger  returned,  and  Sir  Francis  read  the  fol- 
lowing : 

"DEAR  BENDIBOW — I  don't  see  my  way  to  come  to  you 
to-day.     If  you  have  anything  particular  to  say,  dine  with 
me  at  my  house  this  evening  at  seven  o'clock. 
"Yours  truly, 

"MERTON  FILLMORE." 

"Well,  perhaps  that  will  answer  better,  after  all,": 
murmured  the  baronet,  folding  the  paper  up  again  witft 
sombre  thoughtfulness.  "He  gives  a  decent  dinner, 
too."  So,  punctually  at  seven  o'clock,  Sir  Francis'  car- 
riage drove  up  to  Mr.  Fillmore's  door ;  the  footman  gave 
a  loud  double  knock,  and  the  baronet,  in  black  tights  and 
ruffled  shirt,  was  ushered  into  his  host's  presence. 

Though  a  solicitor,  Merton  Fillmore  was  an  English 
gentleman,  of  Scotch  descent  on  his  mother's  side,  and 
more  Scotch  than  English  in  personal  appearance ;  being 
of  good  height  and  build,  lean,  bony  and  high-featured, 
with  well-formed  and  powerful  hands,  carefully-groomed 
finger  nails,  short  reddish  whiskers,  and  bushy  eyebrows. 
His  eyes  were  dark  blue,  sometimes  appearing  black; 
clear  and  unflinching  in  their  gaze.  The  head  above  was 
well  balanced,  the  forehead  very  white,  and  hollowed  at 
118 


DUST.  119 

the  temples.  His  movements  were  quiet  and  undemon- 
strative; when  speaking  at  any  length,  he  habitually 
pressed  his  clenched  right  hand  into  the  palm  of  his  left, 
and  kept  it  there.  At  the  end  of  a  sentence  he  would 
make  his  handsome  lips  meet  together  with  a  grave  deci- 
siveness of  expression.  His  voice  had  unexpected  volume 
and  depth ;  it  could  be  resonant  and  ear-filling  without 
any  apparent  effort  on  the  speaker's  part ;  it  could  also 
sink  until  it  was  just  above  a  whisper,  yet  always  with  a 
keen  distinctness  of  enunciation  that  rendered  it  more 
audible  than  mere  vociferousness.  Soft  or  melodious  it 
never  was ;  but  its  masculine  fibre  and  vibration  were  far 
from  unpleasing  to  most  ears,  certainly  to  most  feminine 
ones.  Fillmore,  however,  was  a  bachelor;  and  though 
still  a  little  on  the  hither  side  of  forty,  he  did  not  seem 
likely  to  change  his  condition.  He  threw  himself  with  un- 
weariable  energy  into  his  profession ;  it  almost  monopo- 
lized his  time  and  his  thoughts.  He  saw  a  good  deal  of 
society ;  but  he  had  never,  so  far  as  was  known,  seen  any 
woman  who,  to  his  thinking,  comprised  in  herself  all  the 
attractions  and  benefits  that  society  had  to  offer.  He 
might,  indeed,  have  been  considered  cold,  but  that  was 
probably  not  so  much  the  case  as  it  superficially  ap- 
peared to  be. 

That  he  should  have  chosen  the  solicitor's  branch  of 
the  legal  profession  was  a  puzzle  to  most  people.  His 
social  position  (his  father  had  been  a  gentleman,  living 
upon  his  own  income,  and  there  was  no  economical  rea- 
son why  Merton  should  not  have  done  the  same)  would 
naturally  have  called  him  to  the  Bar.  It  can  only  be 
said  that  the  work  of  a  solicitor,  bringing  him  as  it  did 
into  immediate  contact  with  the  humors,  the  ambitions, 
the  disputes  and  the  weaknesses  of  mankind,  suited  his 
peculiar  genius  better  than  the  mere  logical  partisanship 
of  the  barrister.  He  cared  more  to  investigate  and  ar- 
range a  case  than  to  plead  it  before  a  jury.  He  liked  to 


120  DTTST. 

have  people  come  to  him  and  consult  him ;  to  question 
them,  to  weigh  their  statements  against  his  own  insight, 
to  advise  them,  to  take  their  measure  ;  to  disconcert  them 
or  to  assist  them.  He  by  no  means  cared  to  bring  all  the 
suits  on  which  he  was  consulted  before  the  court ;  on  the 
contrary,  he  uniformly  advised  his  clients  to  arrange  their 
disputes  privately,  furnishing  them  at  the  same  time  with 
such  sound  reasons  for  so  doing,  and  with  such  equitable 
advice  as  to  a  basis  of  agreement,  as  to  gain  for  himself 
the  reputation  of  an  arbitrator  rather  than  of  an  advocate. 
Nevertheless,  whenever  it  became  necessary  to  push  mat- 
ters to  an  extremity,  the  side  which  Merton  Fillmore  was 
known  to  have  espoused  was  considered  to  be  already  half 
victorious.  No  other  solicitor  in  London,  in  fact,  had  any- 
thing like  the  reputation  of  Merton  Fillmore;  he  was 
among  his  fellows  what  Mr.  Adolphus  or  Mr.  Serjeant 
Kunnington  were  among  barristers.  But  his  acquaint- 
ance with  the  domestic  secrets  of  London  fashionable  so- 
ciety was  affirmed,  doubtless  with  reason,  to  be  more  ex- 
tensive than  that  of  any  physician,  confidential  clergyman 
or  private  detective  in  the  metropolis.  He  held  in  his 
hand  the  reputation  and  prosperity  of  many  a  man  and 
woman  whom  the  world  delighted  to  honor.  Such  a  posi- 
tion is  not  attained  by  mere  intellectual  ability  or  natural 
ingenuity ;  it  demands  that  rare  combination  of  qualities 
which  may  be  termed  social  statesmanship,  prominent 
among  which  is  the  power  of  inspiring  others  with  the 
conviction  that  their  revelations  will  be  at  least  as  safe  in 
the  hearer's  possession  as  in  their  own ;  and  that  he  is 
broadly  and  disinterestedly  tolerant  of  human  frailities. 
Most  men,  in  order  to  achieve  success  and  eminence,  re- 
quire the  spur  of  necessity  or  of  ambition  ;  but  it  is  doubt- 
ful whether  Fillmore  would  have  been  so  eminent  as  he 
was,  had  either  ambition  or  necessity  been  his  prompter. 
He  loved  what  he  did  for  its  own  sake,  and  not  any  ulte- 
rior object.  From  the  social  standpoint  he  had  nothing 


DUST.  121 

to  desire,  and  pecuniarily  he  was  independent.  What  he 
made  with  one  hand  in  his  profession  he  frequently  gave 
away  with  the  other ;  but  no  one  knew  the  details  of  his 
liberality  except  those  who  were  its  object.  He  seldom 
spoke  cordially  of  any  one ;  but  few  were  more  often 
guilty  of  kindly  acts.  He  was  a  man  with  whom  nobody 
ventured  to  take  a  liberty,  yet  who  spoke  his  mind  with- 
out ceremony  to  every  one.  No  one  could  presume  to  call 
Merton  Fillmore  his  friend,  yet  no  honest  man  ever 
found  him  unfriendly.  He  was  no  conventional  moral- 
ist, but  he  distinguished  sharply  between  a  bad  heart 
and  a  good  one.  These  antitheses  might  be  produced 
indefinitely,  but  enough  has  been  said. 

Fillmore  lived  in  a  handsome  house  in  the  then  fash- 
ionable district  of  London.  It  was  one  of  the  best  fur- 
nished and  appointed  houses  in  the  town ;  for  Fillmore 
was  a  man  whose  naturally  fine  taste  had  been  improved 
by  cultivation.  During  his  annual  travels  on  the  Conti- 
nent he  had  collected  a  number  of  good  pictures  and 
other  works  of  art,  which  were  so  disposed  about  his 
rooms  as  to  show  that  their  owner  knew  what  they  were. 
The  machinery  by  which  his  domestic  economy  moved 
was  so  well  ordered  as  to  be  invisible ;  you  never  re- 
marked how  good  his  servants  were,  because  you  never 
remarked  them  at  all.  Once  a  week  he  gave  dinners, 
never  inviting  more  than  five  guests  at  a  time  ;  and  once 
a  month  this  dinner  was  followed  by  a  reception.  People 
renowned  in  all  walks  of  life  were  to  be  met  with  there. 
Lord  Byron  made  his  appearance  there  several  times — a 
young  man  of  splendid  eyes  and  an  appalling  reputation, 
which  his  affable  and  rather  reticent  bearing  scarcely 
seemed  to  justify ;  Lady  Caroline  Lamb,  who  was  sup- 
posed to  be  very  much  in  love  with  him,  and  to  whom 
his  lordship  was  occasionally  rather  impolite;  William 
Godwin,  a  dark  little  creature,  too  ugly  not  to  be  clever, 
but  rather  troublesome  to  converse  with;  a  tall  black- 


123  DUST. 

haired  man,  superbly  handsome,  in  clerical  garb ;  a  man 
whose  great  black  eyes  had  seen  more  trouble  than  was 
wholesome  for  their  owner — who,  indeed,  as  Hazlitt  once 
remarked  to  Fillmore,  would  probably  have  been  a  great 
deal  better  if  he  hadn't  been  so  damned  good  ;  an  agree- 
able little  Irish  lady,  the  author  of  an  irretrievably  moral 
work  for  the  young,  entitled  "Frank"  ;  a  small-chinned, 
lustrous-eyed,  smiling,  fervent  gentleman,  who  had  writ- 
ten a  number  of  graceful  essays  and  poems,  and  who  also, 
oddly  enough,  was  editor  of  a  terrific  Radical  journal  with 
a  motto  from  Defoe ;  a  short,  rather  stout,  Italian-looking 
fellow,  with  flashing  face  and  forcible  gesticulation,  the 
best  actor  of  his  day,  and  a  great  toper ;  another  stoutish 
man  of  a  very  different  complexion,  with  a  countenance 
like  a  humanized  codfish,  thick  parched  lips  that  always 
hung  open,  pale  blue  prominent  eyes,  and  an  astonishing 
volubility  of  philosophical  speculative  dogmatism  ;  a  fas- 
tidious, elderly,  elegant,  womanish,  sentimental  poetaster 
named  Samuel  Eogers,  who  looked  not  unlike  a  dimin- 
ished Sir  Francis  Bendibow  with  the  spine  taken  out; 
and,  in  short,  a  number  of  persons  who  were  of  consider- 
able importance  in  their  own  day,  and  have  become  more 
or  less  so  since  then.  He  would  be  hard  to  please  who 
could  not  find  some  one  to  his  mind  in  Merton  Fillmore's 
drawing-room. 

Sir  Francis  Bendibow,  on  the  evening  with  which  we 
are  at  present  concerned,  had  a  good  deal  on  his  mind ; 
but  that  did  not  prevent  him  from  enjoying  an  excellent 
dinner.  He  was  happy  in  the  possession  of  a  strong  and 
well-balanced  physical  organization,  upon  which  age  and 
a  certain  amount  of  free  living  in  youth  had  made  small 
inroads.  If  he  had  become  a  trifle  stiff1  or  so  in  his  joints, 
he  was  still  robust  and  active,  and  bade  fair  to  outlive 
many  who  were  his  juniors.  That  injurious  chemistry 
whereby  the  mind  and  emotions  act  upon  the  animal  tis- 
sues was  but  faintly  operative  with  Sir  Francis ;  though 


DUST.  123 

it  is  not  to  be  inferred  that  he  was  deficient  in  mental  or 
in  a  certain  kind  of  emotional  vigor.  He  and  Merton 
Fillmore  were  on  familiar  terms  with  each  other — as 
familiar  as  the  latter  ever  was  a  party  to.  Fillmore  had 
been  the  legal  adviser  of  the  bank  for  ten  years  past,  and 
knew  more  about  it,  and  about  Sir  Francis  himself,  than 
the  baronet  was  perhaps  aware  of.  But  the  baronet  was 
thoroughly  aware  of  the  solicitor's  abilities  and  force  of 
character,  and  paid  deference  thereto,  by  laying  aside, 
when  in  his  company,  the  air  of  courteous  superiority 
which  he  maintained  toward  the  generality  of  men.  Fill- 
more's  tendency  in  discussion  was  toward  terseness  and 
directness ;  he  expressed  himself  in  few  words,  though 
ordinarily  pausing  a  few  moments  on  the  threshold  of  a 
sentence.  Sir  Francis,  on  the  contrary,  inclined  to  be 
ornamental,  intricate,  and  wavy  ;  not  because  he  was  igno- 
rant that  a  straight  line  is  the  shortest  distance  between 
two  points,  but  because  there  was  an  arabesque  bias  in 
him,  so  to  speak,  that  prompted  him  to  shun  straight- 
forwardness as  if  it  were  a  sort  of  vulgarity.  Sometimes, 
no  doubt,  and  with  some  men,  this  method  was  effective ; 
as  the  simple  person  on  foot  is  outdone  by  the  skater, 
who,  at  the  moment  of  seeming  to  accost  him  face  to 
face,  all  at  once  recedes  sideways  in  a  wheeling  curve 
that  brings  him  wonderfully  behind  the  other's  shoulder. 
But  it  was  time  thrown  away  to  indulge  in  such  caprioles 
with  a  man  like  Merton  Fillmore;  and  as  Sir  Francis 
had  the  good  sense  to  comprehend  this,  the  two  commonly 
got  on  together  very  comfortably. 

This  evening,  however,  when  the  cloth  had  been  drawn, 
and  the  servants  had  disappeared,  Fillmore,  looking  at 
his  guest  as  he  pushed  toward  him  the  decanter  of  claret, 
perceived  that  there  was  something  more  than  usual  on 
his  mind.  Therefore  he  said  : 

"Has  that  boy  of  yours  been  getting  into  more  scrapes?" 
"Not  he,"  answered  the  baronet,  holding  his  glass  up 


124  DUST. 

to  the  light  for  a  moment,  and  then  turning  the  contents 
down  his  throat.  "Poor  lad,  he  's  scarce  recovered  yet 
from  the  fall  he  got  off  that  coach." 

They  cracked  filberts  for  a  while  in  silence.  At  last 
Fillmore  said  : 

"  Is  the  bank  doing  well  ?" 

"Oh,  if  it  never  does  any  worse,  I  ought  to  be  satis- 
fied." 

"You  must  look  out  for  a  partner,"  observed  Fillmore, 
after  a  pause.  "  Your  son  will  never  make  a  banker. 
And  you  won't  live  forever." 

"The  experience  I  have  had  with  partners  has  not 
been  encouraging,"  said  Sir  Francis,  with  a  melancholy 
smile.  "  The  boy  has  plenty  of  brains,  but  he  's  not 
strong ;  and,  hang  it  1  a  spirited  young  fellow  like  him 
must  have  his  fling.  Time  enough  to  talk  to  him  about 
business  when  he  's  seen  a  bit  of  the  world." 

"  He  will  see  a  bit  of  the  next  world  before  long,  if  you 
don't  keep  him  better  in  hand,"  said  Fillmore.  "You 
ought  to  get  a  partner.  All  men  are  not  Charles  Grant- 
leys,  if  you  refer  to  him.  You  can  do  nothing  else,  unless 
you  intend  to  marry  again." 

"  I  marry  again  ?  Good  God,  Fillmore  1  If  everybody 
else  were  as  far  from  that  as  I  am,  the  child  born  to-day 
would  see  the  end  of  the  world.  No,  no :  I  'd  sooner 
give  up  business  altogether.  There  are  times,  begad, 
when  I  wish  I  had  given  it  up  twenty  years  ago." 

The  baronet  said  this  with  so  much  emphasis  that 
Fillmore,  after  looking  at  him  for  a  few  moments,  said  : 

"  What  times  are  those,  Bendibow  ?" 

"It 's  rather  a  long  story,"  the  other  replied ;  and  hesi- 
tated, wrinkling  his  forehead.  As  Fillmore  kept  silence, 
he  presently  resumed:  "You  know  what  confidence  I 
have  always  reposed  in  you.  To  others  I  show  myself 
only  as  the  banker,  or  the  man  of  the  world  ;  but  to  you, 
my  dear  Fillmore,  I  have  always  opened  myself  without 


DUST.  125 

disguise.  You  comprehend  my  character  ;  arid  I  suppose 
you  would  say  that  I  :m  a  fair  average  specimen  of  the 
genus  homo — eh?" 

"If  you  require  my  opinion  of  you,  I  can  give  it,"  re- 
plied Fillmore  quietly. 

"Well,  'tis  not  often  one  gets  his  portrait  drawn  by  an 
artist  like  you,"  said  the  baronet  laughingly.  '"Ex- 
tenuate naught,  nor  set  down  aught  in  malice,'  as  Charley 
Kean  has  it.  I  expect  to  be  edified,  I  assure  you." 

"  To  begin  with,  your  bank  is  the  last  place  where  I 
should  think  of  putting  my  money,"  said  Fillmore,  with 
deliberation. 

"What  the  dooce  .   .   .  !" 

"You  may  be  as  prosperous  as  report  says  you  are," 
continued  Fillmore  ;  "  but  you  are  a  gambler  to  the  mar- 
row of  your  bones.  You  have  put  money  in  ventures 
which  promised  cent  per  cent :  but  they  were  carried  on 
at  imminent  risk  of  ruin.  If  you  have  not  been  ruined, 
you  have  only  your  luck  to  thank  for  it.  I  like  you  well 
enough ;  and  you  have  made  a  great  success  for  a  man  of 
your  beginnings ;  but  you  have  no  more  morality  than 
there  is  in  that  decanter  of  claret.  Don't  take  offense, 
Sir  Francis.  The  day  I  find  you,  or  any  other  man,  com- 
mitting a  crime  of  which  no  alteration  in  my  circum- 
stances or  temperament  could  have  rendered  me  capable, 
that  day  I  shall  throw  up  my  profession  and  become  a 
journeyman  evangelist.  We  have  always  been  on  friendly 
terms,  and  I  shall  never  take  advantage  of  facts  about 
you  that  have  come  to  my  knowledge ;  but .  .  .  well, 
are  you  determined  to  be  indignant  ?" 

"  Damme,  sir,  you  have  insulted  me  in  your  own  house  I 
I—" 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Bendibow,"  interrupted  the  other 
coldly.  "You  have  come  here  to  ask  my  advice,  and 
perhaps  my  assistance.  You  can  have  both,  within  cer- 
tain limits ;  but  on  condition  that  you  don't  require  me 


126  DUST. 

to  shut  my  eyes  to  your  character.  Technically  speak- 
ing, I  have  insulted  you  ;  and  you  may  resent  it  if  you 
like.  But  as  a  man  of  the  world,  you  may  remember  that 
I  have  not  spoken  in  the  presence  of  witnesses ;  and  that 
if  you  were  blameless,  the  insult  would  recoil  on  myself. 
Take  time  to  think  it  over,  and  then  do  as  best  pleases 
you." 

Sir  Francis,  however,  whatever  may  have  been  his 
other  failings,  was  not  slow-witted  ;  and  he  had  already 
taken  his  attitude.  "You  have  a  damned  disagreeable 
way  of  putting  things,  Fillmore,"  he  said;  "you  ought 
to  know  that  something  more  than  logic  is  necessary  to 
make  social  intercourse  agreeable.  It  is  not  so  much 
what  you  say,  as  your  manner  of  saying  it,  that  got  the 
better  of  my  temper  for  a  moment.  I  'm  not  going  to 
quarrel  with  you  for  not  believing  me  to  be  a  saint ;  you 
may  distrust  my  financial  discretion  if  you  like  ;  but  you 
can't  expect  me  to  be  interested  in  hearing  your  reasons. 
Let  me  try  the  other  claret.  I  have  made  my  mistakes, 
and  I  've  repented  of  them,  I  hope.  No  man,  unless  he 's 
a  fool,  gossips  about  his  mistakes — why  should  he  ?  Do 
you  mean  to  say  that  I  can't  consult  you  on  a  matter 
that  annoys  me,  without  your  raking  up  all  my  follies  of 
the  last  five  and  twenty  years  ?" 

"My  intention  was  not  to  alter  our  relations,  but  to 
define  them,"  Fillmore  replied.  "As  we  stand  now,  we 
are  not  likely  to  misconceive  each  other.  What  is  this 
annoyance?" 

"It  comes  from  one  of  my  follies  that  you  've  not  been 
at  the  pains  to  remember.  But  I  suppose  you  know  that 
when  Grantley  absconded,  he  left  a  daughter  behind  him, 
whom  I  adopted ;  and  that  ten  years  ago  she  married 
and  left  England." 

Fillmore  nodded. 

"She  came  back  a  week  or  two  ago,"  continued  the 
baronet:  "and  she  acted  a  little  scene  at  my  expense  in 


DUST.  127 

my  office.  It  was  at  my  expense  in  more  ways  than  one. 
She  is  a  devilish  clever  woman.  She  had  a  grudge  against 
me  for  not  having  given  her  the  dowry  she  wanted  at  the 
time  of  her  marriage ;  and  .  .  .  well,  the  upshot  of  it 
was  that  I  compounded  with  her  for  ten  thousand  pounds. 
It  was  confoundedly  inconvenient  at  the  time,  too ;  and 
after  all,  instead  of  banking  with  us,  as  she  had  given  us 
to  understand  she  would,  the  little  rascal  has  gone  to 
Childs'.  Her  husband  left  her  a  very  pretty  fortune. 
There 's  not  a  widow  in  London  better  off  or  better 
looking  than  she  is." 

"  She  means  to  settle  here  ?" 

"  She  does.  And  I  would  give  a  good  deal  if  she  had 
settled  in  New  Zealand  instead  I" 

"From  what  you  have  said,"  observed  Fillmore,  after 
a  pause,  "I  infer  that  the  lady  knows  something  to  your 
discredit." 

"  Thank  you  I  It 's  not  what  she  knows,  but  what  she 
may  come  to  know — at  least,  something  might  happen 
which  might  be  very  annoying.  Hang  it,  Fillmore,  can't 
you  keep  your  inferences  to  yourself  ?  I  'm  not  in  the 
dock — I  'm  at  your  table  I" 

."If  I  am  to  understand  your  story,  either  you  must 
tell  it,  or  I  must  guess  it." 

"I  am  telling  it,  as  fast  as  I  can  use  my  tongue,"  re- 
turned Sir  Francis,  who  was  beginning  to  be  demoralized 
by  the  lawyer's  imperturbable  high-handedness.  ' '  To  hear 
you,  one  would  suppose  that  I  was  talking  in  riddles. " 

"  It  may  be  my  obtuseness ;  but  I  cannot  see  why  the 
fact  that  a  good-looking  woman,  who  is  your  niece  and 
adopted  daughter,  chooses  to  live  in  London,  should  in 
itself  cause  you  annoyance." 

"  If  you  will  do  me  the  favor  to  listen  to  me  for  a  mo- 
ment, I  ma,y  be  able  to  explain  it.  This  niece  and  adopted 
daughter  of  mine  is  ...  is  not  my  own  daughter,  of 
course." 


128  DUST. 

"  Does  any  one  believe  that  she  is  ?  The  lady  herself, 
for  example  ?" 

u  If  she  did,  I  should  not  he  inconvenienced  in  the  way 
I  am.  Had  I  foreseen  all  contingencies,  I  should  have 
brought  her  up  in  the  belief  that  she  was  my  own  daugh- 
ter. As  far  as  giving  her  every  advantage  and  indul- 
gence that  was  in  my  power  is  concerned,  no  daughter  of 
my  own  could  have  been  treated  differently.  But  though 
I  omitted  to  disguise  from  her  the  fact  that  she  was  not 
my  own  flesh  and  blood,  I  was  careful  never  to  enlarge 
upon  the  misfortunes  of  her  actual  parentage.  I  never 
spoke  to  her  about  Charles  Grantley.  Whatever  she  may 
have  learnt  about  him  did  not  come  from  me.  I  have 
always  discouraged  all  allusion  to  him,  in  fact;  but  a 
girl's  curiosity  will  be  gratified  even  to  her  own  hurt ; 
and  Perdita  has  more  than  once  given  me  to  understand 
that  she  knew  her  father's  name,  if  not  his  history." 
Here  Sir  Francis  paused,  to  pour  himself  out  a  glass  of 
claret. 

"Since  the  man  is  dead,"  said  Fillmore,  "and  his 
reputation  not  of  the  brightest,  her  knowing  about  him 
can  injure  no  one  but  herself." 

"  Let  us  put  a  case,"  said  the  baronet,  narrowing  Ijis 
eyes  and  turning  his  face  toward  the  ceiling.  "  Let  us 
suppose  she  were  to  say  to  herself,  'My  father  disap- 
peared so  many  years  ago,  a  fugitive  from  justice.  Some 
time  after,  report  came  of  his  death.  Now,  there  may 
be  true  reports  and  there  may  be  false  reports.  Has 
this  report  had  such  confirmation  as  to  put  its  truth  be- 
yond all  possibility  of  question  ?  It  has  not.  It  is  there- 
fore within  the  range  of  possibility  that  it  may  be  false. 
Now,  whose  interest  would  it  be  that  a  false  report  of 
that  kind  should  be  circulated  ?  Who,  and  who  only, 
would  benefit  by  it  ?  Who  would  be  relieved  by  it  from 
an  imminent  and  incessant  peril  ?  Whom  would  its  belief 
enable  to  begin  a  new  career,  unhampered  by  the  delin- 


DUST.  129 

quencies  of  his  past  ?  And  to  do  this,  perhaps,  in  the 
very  spot  where  those  former  delinquencies  had  been 
committed  ?  What—'  " 

"You  mean  to  imply,"  interposed  Fillmore,  "that 
your  adopted  daughter  believes  her  father  to  be  living 
in  London?" 

"  Not  so  fast,  not  so  fast,  my  friend  I  So  far  as  I  am 
aware,  the  idea  has  not  entered  into  her  mind.  I  am 
speaking  of  possibilities." 

Fillmore  gazed  at  his  guest  several  moments  in  silence. 
At  length  he  said  :  "  I  will  adopt  the  hypothetical  vein, 
since  you  prefer  it.  We  will  suppose  that  Grantley  is 
alive  and  in  London,  and  that  his-  daughter  finds  it  out, 
and  seeks  or  grants  an  interview  with  him.  What  would 
be  the  nature  of  the  inconvenience  that  would  cause 
you?" 

"But  surely,  my  dear  Fillmore,"  cried  the  baronet, 
"you  cannot  fail  to  see  how  awkwardly  I  should  be 
placed  !  The  man,  of  course,  would  have  some  plausible 
story  or  other  to  tell  her.  She  would  believe  him  and 
would  plead  his  cause  with  me.  What  could  I  do  ?  To 
deliver  him  up  to  justice  would  be  as  much  of  a  hardship 
and  more  of  a  disgrace  to  me  than  to  him,  not  to  speak 
of  the  extremely  painful  position  in  which  it  would  place 
her.  Matters  would  be  raked  up  which  were  far  better 
left  in  merciful  oblivion.  Were  I,  on  the  other  hand,  to 
allow  him  to  establish  himself  amongst  us,  under  the  as- 
sumed name  which  he  would  probably  have  adopted,  he 
would  presume  upon  my  tolerance  and  become  an  im- 
practicable nuisance.  Having  once  accepted  him  I  should 
never  afterward  be  able  to  rid  myself  of  him  ;  he  would 
make  himself  an  actual  incubus.  The  thing  would  be 
unendurable  either  way." 

"  It  will  simplify  this  affair,  Bendibow,"  said  the  law- 
yer slowly,  "  if  you  inform  me  whether  Charles  Grantley 
is  in  London  or  not." 


180  DUST. 

Sir  "Francis,  who  looked  a  good  deal  flushed  and  over- 
wrought, tossed  off  another  glass  of  wine  by  way  of  tran- 
quilizing  his  nerves,  and  said,  "Of  course,  my  dear 
fellow,  I  might  confide  in  your  discretion.  You  under- 
stand my  dilemma  .  .  .  my  object  is  to  prevent — " 

"  Come,  Bendibow,  answer  my  question,  or  let  us 
change  the  subject." 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  probable  that  the  baronet 
would  give  vent  to  the  spleen  which  was  doubtless  gril- 
ling within  him ;  but  the  moment  passed,  and  he  answered 
rather  sullenly,  "  'Tis  not  likely  that  I  should  have  been 
at  the  pains  to  prolong  this  interview  had  I  not  good  rea- 
son to  believe  that  he  is  in  this  neighborhood.  In  fact, 
the  fellow  had  the  audacity  to  call  on  me  at  the  bank  the 
other  day  and  introduce  himself  under  the  name  of 
Grant." 

"  Is  he  in  needy  circumstances  ?" 

"  No — not  as  far  as  I  know,"  said  Sir  Francis,  wiping 
his  face  with  his  handkerchief.  "  In  fact,  now  I  think  of 
it,  the  clerk  gave  me  to  understand  that  he  had  deposited 
a  certain  sum  in  the  bank." 

"  Did  he  express  an  intimation  of  visiting  his  daughter?" 

"  He  inquired  about  her.  Of  course  I  did  not  inform 
him  of  her  whereabouts ;  I  was  but  an  hour  before  made 
acquainted  with  them  myself.  The  assurance  of  the  man 
passes  belief." 

"It  is  certainly  remarkable,  if  there  is  nothing  to  be 
added  to  your  account  of  the  events  that  led  to  his  disap- 
pearance. What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  ?"  As  the  baronet 
hesitated  to  reply,  the  other  continued,  "  Shall  I  speak 
with  the  man  and  threaten  him  with  the  severity  of  the 
law  unless  he  departs  ?" 

"No,  no — that  won't  do  at  all !"  exclaimed  Sir  Francis 
with  emphasis.  "No  use  saying  anything  to  him;  he 
knows  very  well  that  I  don't  choose  to  have  any  scandal ; 
and  if  he  would  keep  himself  quiet  and  not  attempt  to  re- 


DUST.  131 

new  any  of  his  former  ties  or  associations,  Tie  might  go  to 
the  devil,  for  me.  I  forgave  him  twenty  years  ago,  on  con- 
dition that  he  would  take  himself  off,  and  I  would  forgive 
him  now  for  not  keeping  to  the  letter  of  his  agreement, 
provided  he  would  observe  the  spirit  of  it.  No,  no — it 's 
the  Marquise — it 's  Perdita  whom  we  must  approach. 
You  can  manage  her  better  than  I.  She  won't  suspect 
you.  You  must  sound  her  carefully.  She  's  a  doocid 
clever  woman,  but  you  can  do  it  if  any  man  can.  If  you 
can  induce  her  to  change  her  residence  to  some  other 
country,  so  much  the  better.  Find  out  what  she  knows 
and  thinks  about  this  father  of  hers.  If  the  opportunity 
offers,  paint  the  devil  in  all  his  ugliness.  At  any  cost  put 
all  possible  barriers  in  the  way  of  their  meeting.  That 's 
the  main  thing.  No  use  my  giving  you  instructions ; 
you  '11  know  what  to  do  when  you  see  her,  and  find  out 
the  sort  of  woman  she  is.  Shall  depend  on  you,  my 
dear  Fillmore — your  sagacity  and  friendship  and  all  that. 
You  know  what  I  mean.  Use  your  own  judgment. 
Damme,  I  can  trust  a  friend  I" 

"  I  will  think  it  over,  and  speak  to  you  again  on  the 
subject  in  a  day  or  two,"  said  Fillmore,  who  perceived 
that  the  claret  had  not  improved  the  baronet's  perspica- 
city or  discretion.  Moreover,  the  subject  appeared  to 
him  to  demand  more  than  ordinary  reflection.  Long 
after  Sir  Francis  had  been  bundled  into  his  carriage  and 
sent  home,  the  lawyer  sat  with  folded  arms  and  his  chin 
in  his  hand,  examining  the  topic  of  the  evening  in  many 
lights  and  from  various  points  of  view. 

"  Never  knew  an  honest  man  so  shy  of  the  malefactor 
who  had  swindled  him,"  he  muttered  to  himself  when  he 
went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

MR.  GRANT,  although  he  had  doubtless  been  the  victim 
of  some  bitter  experiences,  had  possessed  enough  native 
generosity  and  simplicity  not  to  have  become  embittered 
by  them.  His  youth  had  known  what  it  is  to  love,  and 
now  his  old  age  was  able  to  take  an  interest  in  the  loves 
of  others.  He  had  accordingly  observed  with  a  great 
deal  of  interest  the  contact  of  the  two  young  characters 
with  whom  chance  had  associated  him ;  and  pleased  him- 
self with  the  notion  that  they  might  become  man  and 
wife.  Being  a  sagacious  old  gentleman,  however,  as  well 
as  a  benevolent  one,  he  had  abstained  from  making  any 
direct  communication  of  his  hopes  to  the  parties  most 
concerned,  or  even  to  Mrs.  Lockhart.  He  was  well 
aware  that  human  beings,  especially  while  they  are 
under  thirty,  object  to  being  guided,  even  though  their 
guide  lead  them  whither  they  themselves  would  go.  He 
rather  sought  to  fathom  their  peculiarities  of  character, 
in  order  that  he  might,  without  their  suspecting  it,  in- 
cline them  to  his  purpose.  At  the  first  view,  the  enter- 
prise did  not  appear  a  very  hopeful  one.  Beyond  that 
Marion  and  Philip  had  ample  opportunities  of  becoming 
acquainted  with  each  other,  and  were  of  an  age  to  marry, 
circumstances  seemed  rather  against  the  match.  They 
were  both  poor ;  Marion  could  not  well  be  more  so,  and 
Philip,  save  for  such  income  as  his  poetry  might  bring 
him,  had  no  more  than  enough  for  his  own  support. 
They  could  scarcely  be  said  to  belong  to  the  same  class 
in  life,  and  their  outward  associations  and  sympathies 
were  far  from  being  identical.  What  was  more  serious 

133 


DUST.  133 

than  all  this,  however,  they  were,  as  a  general  thing, 
more  inclined  to  quarrel  than  to  agree.  There  was  a 
satirical  vein  in  both  of  them,  and  neither  of  them  were 
old  enough  to  forbear  giving  utterance  to  a  keen  remark 
that  happened  to  come  into  their  minds.  In  matters 
affecting  the  conduct  of  life,  Philip  assumed  a  cynical 
tone,  which  Marion  never  failed  to  impeach  as  unworthy 
and  contemptible.  There  was  much  subtlety  and  in- 
tricacy in  both  their  characters,  but  Philip  was  an  in- 
veterate self-analyst,  and  prone  to  make  the  most  of  his 
contradictions,  while  Marion  took  but  a  faint  interest  in 
herself,  and  was  never  inclined  to  make  herself  the  sub- 
ject of  discussion  ;  she  scouted  all  cut-and-dried  rules  of 
behavior,  and  was  far  more  genuinely  reserved,  and  there- 
fore more  abstruse  a  problem,  than  Philip.  She  was 
almost  savagely  independent ;  and  Philip,  partly  because 
he  really  put  his  own  independence  in  jeopardy,  at- 
tempted to  wear  a  condescending  manner  toward  her, 
which  she  altogether  resented  and  laughed  to  scorn.  On 
the  other  hand,  she  was  continually  making  unexpected 
attacks  upon  his  self-esteem,  and  exposing  his  Machiavel- 
ism,  in  a  manner  that  he  found  it  difficult  to  sustain  with 
equanimity ;  and  the  apprehension  of  these  onslaughts 
diminished  his  ability  to  show  himself  in  his  truer  and 
more  amiable  colors.  Thus,  in  one  way  or  another,  there 
was  always  a  surface  contention  going  on  between  them. 
Whether  the  hostility  went  deeper  than  the  surface  it 
was  not  easy  to  decide.  Xo  doubt  each  appreciated  the 
good  qualities  that  the  other  possessed,  as  abstract  good 
qualities ;  but  that  would  not  prevent  their  objecting  to 
the  fashion  in  which  the  good  qualities  were  called  into 
play.  It  is  not  so  much  what  a  person  is,  as  how  he  is 
it,  that  determines  the  opinion  his  fellows  have  of  him. 
Marion,  for  example,  felt  herself  under  deep  and  perma- 
nent obligation  to  Philip  for  his  conduct  in  relation  to 
Major  Lockhart ;  and  she  must  have  perceived  that  such 


134  DUST. 

an  act  was  worth  much  more  as  an  indication  of  charac- 
ter than  intrinsically.  But  had  she  been  questioned  on 
this  point,  she  would  probably  have  said  that  Mr.  Lan- 
caster would  be  more  agreeable  if  all  his  acts  were  as 
little  agreeable  as  himself.  It  is  beneath  the  intelligence 
of  any  woman — certainly  of  any  young  woman — to  like 
a  man  merely  because,  upon  logical,  demonstrative,  or 
syllogistic  grounds  he  deserves  it.  She  is  more  likely  to 
make  his  desert  a  point  against  him. 

Such  were  some  of  the  obstacles  in  the  way  of  Mr. 
Grant's  scheme ;  and  the  fact  that  Philip  was  handsome 
and  high-bred  would  have  but  small  weight  in  determin- 
ing the  choice  of  a  girl  like  Marion.  Philip,  on  the  con- 
trary, was  of  a  fastidious  and  Aristarchian  turn  that 
would  incline  him  to  look  for  visible  and  palpable  charms 
and  graces,  as  well  as  mental  and  moral  ones,  in  the 
woman  of  his  heart.  Now,  Marion,  as  has  already  been 
intimated,  was  by  no  means  pre-eminently  beautiful ; 
and  it  was  not  among  her  notions  of  duty  to  make  the 
most  of  such  attractions  as  she  had.  She  was  tall,  and 
rather  largely  made,  with  a  figure  finely  developed,  but 
not  graceful  in  its  movements.  Her  face  had  nobility 
and  intelligence,  but  not  comeliness ;  she  was  an  example 
of  how  a  woman  may  have  all  the  elements  of  good  looks 
except  the  finishing  touches,  and  yet  not  appear  good 
looking.  Some  imperfection  of  health,  not  uncommon 
to  girls  of  her  age  and  temperament,  had  impaired  the 
smoothness  of  her  complexion ;  and  she  had  overtaxed 
her  gray  eyes  by  reading  at  night  in  bed.  She  often  fell 
into  taciturn  moods,  when  she  would  hardly  speak  for 
days  together ;  at  other  times  she  would  talk  rapidly  and 
at  some  length,  and  when,  as  rarely  happened,  she  was 
sensible  of  affection  and  sympathy,  she  could  be  deli- 
ciously  and  fancifully  voluble,  revealing  a  rich  and 
tender  spirit,  original,  observant,  and  keen.  But,  on  the 
whole,  she  was  more  prone  to  act  than  to  speak;  at- 


"I   TIED   THE   CARD   TO   THE   GATE   ITSELF. 
FAIL   TO   SEE   IT." 


NOBODY   CAN 


DUST.  135 

tached  importance  rather  to  wnat  others  did  than  to  what 
they  said ;  and  could  express  more,  and  more  subtle  things, 
by  deeds  than  by  words.  She  had  a  fiery  and  almost 
wild  temper,  but  it  was  never  ungenerous  or  underhand ; 
and  she  was  sensitively  and  unreasonably  proud.  There 
was  an  almost  insane  streak  in  her,  showing  itself  in 
strange  freaks  and  escapades ;  she  would  laugh  when  she 
might  have  wept ,  and  wept  but  seldom,  and  then  in  se- 
cret, and  obstructedly  or  revengefully.  She  enjoyed  the 
unusual  aspects  of  nature  and  things,  and  was  amused 
where  other  women  would  tremble.  There  was  a  vein  of 
mischief  in  her ;  but  this  belonged  to  the  brighter  side  of 
her  character,  and  was  arch  and  playful.  What  she 
needed,  in  order  to  the  full  health  of  her  body  and  mind, 
was  more  deep  and  broad  mental  and  moral  occupation ; 
what  declared  itself  as  ill  health  being  but  the  effect  of 
unemployed  energy  reacting  upon  itself.  Her  worst 
faults  were  perhaps  an  alert  and  intractable  jealousy, 
and  a  readiness  perversely  to  suspect  others  of  insincerity 
and  meanness  toward  herself.  But  the  latter  of  these 
errors  was  caused  by  her  low  opinion  of  her  personal  de- 
serts ;  and  the  former  by  her  not  ignoble  zeal  for  the 
integrity  of  honorable  and  pure  emotions,  which,  though 
harbored  by  her,  belonged  not  to  her  individually,  but 
were  to  the  credit  of  our  general  human  nature. 

That  Mr.  Grant  did  not  lose  heart  in  face  of  the  diffi- 
culties against  which  he  had  pitted  himself,  showed  either 
that  he  possessed  great  temerity,  or  that  he  could  see 
further  than  most  people  into  millstones.  It  was  not  so 
much  his  aim,  at  first,  to  force  the  young  people  into 
each  other's  society  as  to  talk  to  each  about  the  other, 
and  about  love  and  marriage ;  not  obtruding  his  own 
views,  but  eliciting  and  criticising  theirs.  He  was  a 
pleasant  man  to  talk  with,  for  he  made  his  interlocutor 
talkative ;  and  the  topics  upon  which  he  chiefly  dwelt 
were  such  as  seldom  fail  to  interest  any  man  or  woman 


136  DUST. 

whose  heart  has  not  been  misused — I  will  not  say  by 
others,  or  by  the  world,  but — by  the  owner  of  it.  To  hear 
him,  you  would  have  thought  that  Mr.  Grant,  so  far  from 
desiring  to  impart  information  or  understanding,  was  in 
search  thereof,  and  needed  support  at  every  step.  For 
one  who  had  so  much  an  air  of  cultivation  and  refinement, 
he  was  an  amazingly  unenlightened  old  gentleman. 

"I  remember,  when  I  was  a  young  fellow,"  he  said  one 
day  to  Marion,  "  I  held  an  opinion  which  was  very  un- 
fashionable. Indeed,  for  the  matter  of  that,  a  good  many 
of  my  opinions  were  unfashionable.  Since  then  I  have 
come  to  reconsider  not  a  few  of  them.  One's  point  of 
view  changes  as  one  moves  on.  Perhaps  the  notion  to 
which  I  refer  was  erroneous,  as' well  as  the  others." 

"  You  have  not  told  me  what  it  was,"  said  Marion. 

"I  mean,  whether  or  not  it  is  prudent" and  sensible  to 
marry  for  love  ?" 

"I  don't  think  love  is  a  thing  about  which  one  ought 
to  be  prudent.  Because  prudence  is  to  be  careful  not 
to  put  yourself  to  some  inconvenience  :  and  love  out- 
weighs all  the  inconveniences  in  the  world  ...  I  should 
think." 

"Aye;  but  suppose  that,  after  a  while,  all  the  love 
should  be  gone,  and  only  the  inconvenience  left  ?  Then  I 
should  wish  I  had  been  prudent,  shouldn't  I?" 

"  But  a  real  love  never  can  be  gone.  It  is  all  there  is 
of  you.  It  must  last  as  long  as  you  do.  And  when  you 
are  gone,  prudence  is  no  matter." 

"  I  would  agree  with  you,  my  dear,  were  it  possible  for 
us  to  know  love  when  we  see  him.  I  fear  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  evidence  that  we  do  not  do  that.  And  though  it 
takes  only  one  person  to  make  that  mistake,  not  all  the 
world  can  set  it  right  again." 

"  That  is  like  Humpty  Dumpty,"  said  Marion,  with  a 
laugh.  "  But  I  don't  think  there  can  be  any  mistake 
about  the  love  we  feel.  'Tis  like  being  in  the  sunshine  ; 


DUST.  187 

we  don't  mistake  sunshine  for  moonlight,  or  starlight,  or 
for  all  the  lamps  and  candles  that  ever  burned." 

"Ah !  then  you  admit  that  we  may  be  mistaken  in  the 
object  for  which  our  love  is  felt.  And  that  comes  to  the 
same  thing  after  all." 

"But  I  don't  say  that ;  I  'm  not  sure  of  that,"  said 
Marion  thoughtfully,  and  looking  somewhat  troubled. 
"  Besides,  even  if  you  loved  .  .  .  some  one  who  did  not 
love  you,  or  was  not  worthy  of  your  love — still,  you  know, 
you  would  have  loved.  You  could  afford  to  be  unhappy 
after  that !  If  I  were  a  common  pebble,  and  some  en- 
chanter transformed  me  into  a  diamond,  he  might  crush 
me  afterward  :  I  should  have  been  all  I  could  be." 

Mr.  Grant  sighed.  "You  young  folk  know  how  to  be 
eloquent,"  said  he.  "And  you  may  be  right,  my  dear — 
you  may  be  right.  I  should  like  to  think  so.  I  suppose 
every  one  is  not  born  with  the  power  of  loving  ;  but,  for 
those  who  are,  what  you  say  may  be  true.  And  possibly 
Providence  may  so  order  things — I  am  an  old-fashioned 
fellow,  you  see,  and  believe  in  Providence — that  those 
who  can  truly  love  are  never  ignobly  disappointed.  They 
will  have  griefs,  no  doubt — for  it  would  be  an  empty 
world  that  was  without  those — but  not  ignoble  ones. 
There  may  be  something  purifying  and  divine  in  a  real 
love,  that  makes  it  like  an  angel,  before  whose  face  all 
that  is  base  and  paltry  flees  away."  After  saying  this, 
Mr.  Grant  was  silent  for  a  little  while ;  and  Marion, 
glancing  at  his  face,  fancied  that  he  was  thinking  of  some 
vanished  love  of  his  own,  and  she  would  have  liked  to 
have  asked  him  about  it,  but  could  not  find  words  to  do 
it  in.  Presently  he  looked  round  at  her,  and  said,  with  a 
smile : 

"You,  at  any  rate,  have  a  right  to  your  belief,  my  dear. 
It  comes  to  you  by  inheritance.  Your  mother,  I  am  sure, 
made  a  love-match." 

"  Oh,  yes  I    But  mamma  was  born  for  such  things — to 


188  DUST. 

love  and  be  loved  I  mean.  I  sometimes  think  though, 
she  would  not  have  loved  my  father  so  much,  if  she  had 
not  first  met  Mr.  Tom  Grantley.  She  imagined  she  was 
in  love  with  him,  you  know ;  just  for  a  little  while ;  and 
he  must  have  been  a  grand  man ;  he  made  her  heart  wake 
up — he  made  her  know  what  love  was,  without  making 
her  really  love  him.  So,  when  she  met  father,  she  knew 
how  to  give  herself  to  him.  "Wouldn't  it  have  been 
strange  if  she  had  married  Mr.  Grantley?  But  she 
would  not  have  been  happy.  How  strange  if  she  had 
married  him  I  I  could  not  bear  to  have  any  other  father 
but  my  own  father ;  I  shall  never  care  for  any  one  as  I 
did  for  him." 

"  Indeed,  it  would  have  been  strange  if  she  had  married 
Mr.  Grantley,"  returned  the  old  gentleman  musingly. 
"But  as  you  say,  'tis  doubtless  better  as  it  is.  In  my 
life,  many  things  have  happened  that  I  would  gladly  have 
averted,  or  altered  :  but  looking  back  on  them  now  I  can 
see  how  they  may  have  been  for  the  best.  For  instance, 
I  am  very  fond  of  you,  my  dear  Marion — you  won't  mind 
me  saying  this,  will  you  ? — and  I  might  wish  that  I  had 
some  substantial  right  to  be  fond  of  you,  and  to  expect 
you  to  be  fond  of  me  :  that  you  might  have  been  my 
niece  or  daughter,  or  my  young  sister — my  step-sister, 
let  us  say.  But,  after  all,  I  would  have  nothing  altered ; 
and  I  dare  say  you  will  give  me,  out  of  free  generosity, 
as  much  affection  as  if  you  were  my  kinswoman." 

"Oh,  at  least  as  much,"  said  Marion,  smiling.  "And 
I  might  like  you  even  more  than  I  do  if  there  were  some 
good  reason  why  I  should  not  like  you  so  much." 

"I  doubt  if  I  have  audacity  enough  to  take  you  at  your 
word  .  .  .  and  yet,  I  don't  know !  I  might  devise  some 
plot  against  you  which  you  would  only  discover  after  my 
death ;  as  people  leave  hampering  legacies  to  their  sur- 
vivors, who  are  then  obliged  to  grin  and  bear  it.  Will  you 
like  me  better  on  the  mere  chance  of  such  a  calamity." 


DUST.  139 

"It  is  very  hard  to  forgive  benefits ;  and  I  'm  afraid 
that  this  is  the  only  sort  of  calamity  you  will  bring  down 
upon  me." 

"But  don't  you  think  there  is  a  point  at  which  inde- 
pendence becomes  selfishness  ?" 

"  I  think  it  is  better  to  run  that  risk  than  the  other. 
It  would  be  for  me,  I  am  sure.  I  don't  believe  in  myself 
enough  to  venture  on  making  a  milliner's  block  of  myself 
— all  my  value  to  be  in  the  fine  things  that  are  hung  on 
me.  Mamma  is  always  hoping  I  may  get  married — she 
can't  understand  that  all  women  are  not  created  mar- 
riageable, as  she  was — and  wants  me  to  '  make  the  most 
of  my  advantages,'  as  she  calls  it.  As  if  I  wouldn't 
take  more  pains  to  appear  disagreeable  to  a  man  who 
wanted  to  marry  me  than  to  any  one  else  I" 

"You  remind  me  of  something  Philip  Lancaster  said 
the  other  day.  We  were  speaking  of  the  extraordinary 
marriages  one  hears  of— the  most  unlikely  people  falling 
in  love  with  each  other — and  he  made  the  remark  that 
the  people  best  worth  knowing  were  those  who  refused 
to  be  known — or  something  of  that  kind ;  and  that  pro- 
bably, in  the  case  of  a  man  marrying  a  woman — or  vice 
versa — of  whom  it  is  asked,  '  What  on  earth  could  he  see 
in  her  ?'  the  truth  is  he  sees  in  her  what  is  reserved 
only  for  the  eyes  of  love  to  discern — something  too  rare 
and  precious  to  reveal  itself  at  any  less  magic  touch  than 
love's.  It  struck  me  as  a  good  saying;  because  it  re- 
bukes surface  judgments  of  human  nature ;  and  develops 
the  symbol  of  the  diamond,  which  is  the  most  beautiful 
of  all  gems,  and  therefore  the  least  accessible." 

"  I  should  have  expected  Mr.  Lancaster  to  say  that  the 
diamond  is  the  least  accessible  and  therefore  the  most 
beautiful — in  the  finder's  opinion ;  that  is  the  way  he 
would  have  put  it  had  he  been  talking  to  me." 

"As  to  that,"  replied  Mr.  Grant,  with  a  smile,  "Lan- 
caster, in  his  dealings  with  you,  reminds  me  of  a  young 


140  DUST. 

officer  I  once  saw  carrying  despatches  in  a  battle  across 
the  line  of  fire.  In  his  anxiety  to  show  that  the  immi- 
nent peril  he  was  in  did  not  in  the  least  frighten  him,  he 
put  on  such  an  affected  swagger — he  was  naturally  a  very 
modest  and  unpretentious  young  fellow — that  his  most 
intimate  friend  would  hardly  have  recognized  him. 
Now,  I  apprehend  that  my  friend  Lancaster's  native 
simplicity  is  disguised  by  a  like  effort  to  appear  indif- 
ferent to  your  sharp-shooting.  'Tis  hardly  fair,  Marion. 
It  is  one  thing  to  hide  the  graces  of  one's  own  mind  and 
heart ;  but  to  force  another  to  disfigure  his  is  less  justifi- 
able, me  thinks  I" 

"Mr.  Lancaster  would  be  amused  at  the  idea  of  my 
being  unjust  to  him,"  said  Marion,  reddening  and  laugh- 
ing. "He'd  be  expecting  me  to  criticise  the  sun  at 
noonday  next !" 

"  There  is  a  difference  betwixt  appreciating  one's  self, 
and  being  self-conceited,"  replied  Mr.  Grant.  "Lan- 
caster is  at  the  age  when  a  man  sees  himself  rather  as  a 
reflection  of  humanity  in  general,  than  as  an  individual. 
He  has  much  insight ;  he  detects  a  great  number  of  traits 
and  qualities  in  people  with  whom  he  comes  in  contact ; 
and  whatever  he  has  the  sympathy  to  detect  in  others, 
he  fancies  he  possesses  himself.  'Tis  a  natural  miscon- 
ception; he  lacks  the  experience  that  will  hereafter 
enable  him  to  distinguish  one's  recognition  of  a  quality 
from  one's  ownership  of  it.  The  older  we  grow,  the 
more  we  find  the  limits  of  character  contract ;  we  actu- 
ally become  but  a  small  fraction  of  what  we  see  and 
understand.  And  then,  it  may  be,  a  young  man  re- 
ceives a  sharper  impression  from  the  evil  that  is  in  the 
world  than  from  the  good ;  and  that  may  be  the  reason 
why  our  friend  Philip  sometimes  refers  so  darkly  and 
ominously  to  his  moral  condition.  'Tis  not  his  own 
wickedness  that  oppresses  him,  but  that  which  he  has 
divined  in  the  capacities  of  human  nature.  An  old 


DUST.  141 

like  me  prefers  to  look  at  the  brighter  side  of  man- 
kind ;  and  therefore,  perhaps,  ceases  to  take  so  much 
interest  in  himself." 

"It  may  be  all  true — I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Marion, 
with  a  great  air  of  indifference.  "But  Mr.  Lancaster 
probably  won't  need  my  appreciation  so  long  as  he  is  not 
tired  of  his  own." 

"Ah,  my  child,"  the  old  gentleman  said,  with  more 
gravity  than  he  had  yet  spoken,  "  we  are  all  foolish  and 
feeble  creatures,  and  'tis  pathetic  how  we  strive — clum- 
sily and  mistakenly  often,  God  knows  ! — to  appear  wise 
and  strong  in  one  another's  sight.  If  you  would  take 
my  word  for  it,  I  would  tell  you  our  saddest  regret  at  the 
close  of  life  is  that  we  have  been  less  forbearing  and 
helpful  to  our  fellows  than  we  might  have  been.  And  I 
would  have  you  believe,  too,  that  to  do  some  good  is 
much  easier  than  it  seems.  It  is  as  easy  as  to  be  ironical 
and  self-sufficient.  Here  is  a  young  man's  soul  passing 
your  way  on  its  long  journey,  not  knowing  how  to  ask 
your  womanly  sympathy  and  influence,  but  much  in  need 
of  them  nevertheless.  Perhaps  you  might  say  a  word  or 
do  a  deed  to  him  that  would  make  an  eternal  difference 
in  the  path  he  takes  and  the  goal  he  reaches.  To  under- 
rate your  power  is  to  wrong  both  yourself  and  him.  For 
we  know — do  we  not,  my  dear  ? — that  the  source  whence 
good  comes  is  not  in  ourselves. :/ 

Marion's  face  had  grown  ir/tensely  expressive  while 
Mr.  Grant  was  speaking ;  her  cheeks  and  forehead  flushed, 
her  eyes  showed  disquietude,  and  she  moved  her  hands 
restlessly.  Presently  she  exclaimed,  "It  is  not  as  you 
suppose,  sir.  I  don't  feel  unkindly  to  Mr.  Lancaster — 
he  was  kind  to  us  before  he  knew  us.  But  it  is  not  my 
place  ...  I  am  a  girl  ...  he  would  not  thank  me. 
There  is  some  one  else — he  knows  Perdita  Desmoines ;  I 
cannot  interfere."  She  stood  up  and  moved,  as  if  she 
intended  to  leave  the  room. 


142  DUST. 

Mr.  Grant  rose  and  took  her  hand.  "I  know  of  his 
acquaintance  with  that  lady,"  he  said ;  but  I  think  Philip 
is  neither  so  young  nor  so  old  as  you  would  imply.  And 
the  truth  is,  Marion,  you  have  won  my  heart,  and  so  has 
he ;  and  my  conscience  never  feels  quite  at  ease  until  I 
have  made  my  friends  friends  of  each  other.  "What  else 
does  Providence  give  them  to  me  for  ?" 

"  For  their  own  good,"  I  should  imagine,"  replied  Ma- 
rion, with  a  smile. 

"  Aye — the  good  I  may  he  the  means  of  their  doing 
each  other." 

She  shook  her  head  and  laughed. 

"Though  to  he  sure,"  she  added,  "  'twould  be  scarce 
worth  while  to  count  the  good  they  are  like  to  do  you  I" 

"  I  am  too  far  on  in  years  to  begin  to  count  the  good 
you  have  done  me,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 
And  then,  as  they  were  at  the  door,  he  opened  it  for  her, 
and  she  passed  out.  After  closing  it  again,  Mr.  Grant 
took  out  his  snuff-box  and  helped  himself  to  a  pinch  with 
an  air  of  much  quiet  contentment. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

in  England  sometimes  combines  the  tender  after- 
noon of  spring  with  the  dawning  beauty  of  summer. 
There  is  joyful  potency  in  the  sunshine,  but  no  white 
colorless  glare ;  it  seems  to  proceed  almost  as  much  from 
the  face  of  the  earth  as  from  the  sun.  The  air,  both  in 
light  and  in  shadow,  is  of  an  even  warmth — the  happy 
medium  between  heat  and  cold — which,  like  perfect 
health,  exhilarates  us  with  so  much  subtlety  that  we  are 
hardly  aware  of  it  until  it  is  no  more.  Nature,  who  has 
no  memory,  triumphs  over  our  weary  hearts  by  telling 
over  once  more  the  sweet  story,  repeated  a  myriad  times, 
and  with  such  youthful  zest  as  half  to  beguile  us  into  the 
belief  that  it  is  new  indeed.  So,  too,  the  infant  man  be- 
gins the  heavy  journey  whose  end  we  know  too  well, 
unshadowed  by  the  gloom  of  our  grim  experience, 
shielded  from  our  dreary  sophistries  by  the  baby  wisdom 
brought  from  Heaven,  which  we  can  never  learn.  We 
know  how  soon  he  must  lose  that  shield  of  light,  yet  we 
prolong  for  him,  if  we  may,  the  heavenly  period.  For 
our  human  life  is  a  valley,  the  gloom  of  whose  depths 
would  be  too  terrible  to  endure  did  we  not  believe  that 
its  limits,  on  either  side,  bordered  on  the  sky. 

Mr.  Grant  was,  perhaps,  peculiarly  appreciative  of  the 
charm  of  this  English  season,  because  he  had  been  so 
long  exiled  to  the  torrid  damps  of  India.  One  morning, 
accordingly,  when  the  family  were  seated  round  the 
breakfast-table,  with  the  fresh  air  and  sunshine  stream- 
ing through  the  open  window,  he  pulled  out  of  his  fob 
the  large  old-fashioned  gold  watch  which  he  always  car- 
ried, and  having  consulted  it,  said : 
143 


144  DUST. 

"  'Tis  now  eight  o'clock,  Mrs.  Lockhart.  Shall  you  be 
ready  in  an  hour  ?" 

To  which  Mrs.  Lockhart,  who  had  all  that  morning 
worn  upon  her  gentle  countenance  an  expression  of  mys- 
terious presage,  strangely  alien  to  her  customary  aspect 
of  guileless  amenity,  replied,  mantling  with  a  smile, 
"Quite  ready,  Mr.  Grant." 

"At  nine  o'clock,  then,  we  will  set  out.  Marion,  get 
on  your'  riding-habit ;  you  and  Mr.  Lancaster  must  ac- 
company us  on  horseback." 

Philip  and  Marion  looked  inquiringly  at  each  other, 
and  then  at  their  elders,  and  Philip  said:  "Is  this  an- 
other Popish  plot  ?" 

' '  Nothing  so  unsubstantial, ' '  Mr.  Grant  replied.  ' '  Mrs. 
Lockhart  and  I  are  going  to  drive  to  Richmond  Hill,  and 
Marion  and  you  are  to  escort  us.  The  carriage  and  the 
horses  will  be  at  the  door  an  hour  hence.  So — no  cookery 
and  no  poetry  in  this  house  to-day  I" 

Marion  went  round  to  her  mother  and  kissed  her  cheek. 
"  But  Mr.  Grant  is  having  a  bad  effect  on  you,  mamma," 
she  said.  "  You  never  kept  a  secret  from  me  before  I" 

By  nine  o'clock  everything  and  everybody  were  ready. 
Philip,  booted  and  spurred,  and  with  a  feather  in  his 
steeple-crowned  hat,  was  as  handsome  as  one  of  the 
heroes  of  his  own  poems,  who,  indeed,  all,  more  or  less, 
resembled  him,  and  Marion  had  never  looked  so  well  as 
in  her  dark  blue  riding-habit.  As  for  Mrs.  Lockhart 
and  Mr.  Grant,  they  were  at  least  as  youthful  as  any  of 
the  party,  and  the  June  morning  glorified  them  all.  The 
two  elder  people  took  their  seats  in  the  carriage ;  Philip 
helped  Marion  into  her  saddle  and  then  leaped  into  his 
own ;  the  coachman  gathered  up  his  reins  and  they 
started  off.  In  a  few  minutes  they  were  moving  along 
the  broad  highway  toward  Kew  Bridge,  Marion  and 
Philip  riding  side  by  side  in  advance.  The  tall  elms 
shook  green  shadows  from  their  rustling  leaves,  inter- 


DUST.  145 

spersed  with  sunbeams  and  sweet  bird-voices;  veils  of 
thinnest  cloud  softened  the  tender  horizon  and  drew  in 
tranquil  arcs  across  the  higher  blue.  A  westerly  breeze, 
coming  from  the  coolness  where  the  dawn  was  still  be- 
ginning, breathed  past  their  faces  and  sent  freshness  to 
their  hearts.  The  horses  shook  their  heads  and  stretched 
their  limbs,  and  slanted  forward  anticipative  ears.  Ma- 
rion's cheeks  were  red  and  her  eyes  sparkled. 

"I  wish  Kichmond  Hill  were  t'other  side  the  world," 
she  said,  "and  we  to  ride  there  I" 

"  I  would  ride  with  you  as  far  as  that,  and  then  home 
the  other  way,"  said  Philip. 

"  We  should  lose  our  road,  perhaps." 

"No  matter,  if  we  did  not  lose  each  other." 

"  Could  you  write  poetry  on  horseback  ?" 

"  'Tis  better  to  ride  through  a  poem  than  to  write  one." 

"  Would  this  poem  be  blank  verse  or  rhyme  ?" 

"  Khyme  !"  cried  Philip. 

"  Why  ?» 

"  Because  that  poem  should  make  Marion  rhyme  with 
Philip." 

"  Yes — when  it  is  written  !" 

"  I  would  rather  be  the  author  of  that  poem  than  ef 
any  other." 

Marion  laughed.  "  You  would  find  it  very  poor  prose 
when  it  was  done." 

"It  would  turn  all  my  prose  into  poetry,  if  I  might 
hope  even  to  begin  it.  Marion — " 

She  reined  in  her  horse.  "  We  are  going  too  fast  and 
too  far,"  she  said  gravely.  "  The  carriage  is  almost  out 
of  sight." 

"But  your  mother  will  trust  you  with  me,"  said  Philip, 
looking  at  her. 

"You  do  not  know  that;  nor  whether  I  care  to  be 
trusted." 


146  DVST. 

"  Ah  !  that  is  what  I  fear,"  said  Philip,  biting  his  lip. 
"  You  prefer  to  ride  alone ;  I  don't." 

"  You  're  not  accustomed  to  it,  perhaps  ?" 

"  I  have  been  alone  all  my  life  !" 

Marion  laughed  again.  "  I  thought  the  Marquise  Des- 
moines  was  a  horsewoman,"  she  said. 

Philip  blushed ;  and  the  carriage  having  by  this  time 
come  up,  the  conversation  was  carried  no  further. 

But  it  was  impossible  to  be  dispirited  on  a  day  like 
this.  The  deep  smile  of  a  summer  morning,  though  it 
may  seem  to  mock  the  dreariness  of  age,  is  generally 
found  contagious  by  youth.  The  mind  must  be  power- 
fully preoccupied  that  can  turn  its  eyes  inward,  when 
such  a  throng  of  outward  loveliness  invites  it.  As  the 
party  approached  the  bridge,  a  narrow  and  hump-backed 
structure,  which  made  up  in  picturesqueness  what  it 
lacked  in  convenience,  the  broad  reaches  of  the  river 
came  into  view,  widening  down  on  the  left  toward 
distant  London,  and,  on  the  right,  curving  round  the 
wooded  shores  of  Kew.  The  stream  echoed  with  in- 
ward tones  the  blue  aloft,  varying  its  clear  serenity 
with  a  hundred  frets  and  trills  of  sparkling  light.  Many 
boats  plied  to  and  fro,  oared  by  jolly  young  watermen 
who  dreamt  not  of  railways  and  steam-launches.  There 
were  voices  of  merry-makers,  laughter,  and  calling,  after 
the  British  fashion,  all  taking  so  well  the  color  of  the 
scene  as  to  appear  to  be  its  natural  utterance ;  though 
when,  with  a  finer  ear,  you  caught  the  singing  of  the 
birds,  that  seemed  the  natural  utterance  too.  Crossing 
the  bridge,  and  winding  past  Kew  Green,  they  began 
to  behold,  at  the  distance  of  a  mile  or  so,  the  pleasant 
town  of  Kichmond  grouped  betwixt  the  river  and  the 
hill.  Leaving  a  venerable  hostelry  on  the  right,  and 
turning  sharply  westward,  carriage  and  horses  trundled 
and  tramped  conspicuous  along  the  high -shouldered 
street;  butcher-boys  and  loafers  turned  to  stare;  shop- 


DUST.  147 

keepers  stood  in  their  doorways,  rubbing  super-service- 
able hands,  and  smirking  invitations ;  a  postboy,  standing 
at  the  door  of  the  Castle  Inn  with  a  pot  of  ale  in  his 
hand,  emptied  it  to  Marion's  health ;  while  the  neat  bar- 
maid who  had  fetched  it  for  him  paused  on  the  threshold 
with  the  corner  of  her  apron  to  her  lips,  and  giggled  and 
reddened  at  handsome  Philip's  nod.  Anon  they  breasted 
the  hill,  whose  sudden  steepness  made  the  horses  bob 
their  heads  and  dig  their  iron  toes  sharply  into  the  road. 
As  they  mounted  to  higher  air,  so  did  the  arc  of  the 
horizon  seem  to  mount  with  them,  and  the  wide  levels 
of  rich  country  lying  between  retired  from  verdurous 
green  to  remote  blue,  divided  by  the  lazy  curves  of 
glancing  Thames.  It  is  the  most  cultivated  prospect  in 
the  world,  and  second  to  none  in  wealth  and  variety  of 
historical  association.  It  gives  range  and  breathing  room 
to  the  spirits ;  it  has  endless  comely  charm,  but  it  is  not 
inspiring.  It  is  redolent  of  the  humdrum  flatness  of  re- 
spectable and  prosperous  mediocrity.  The  trees  look  like 
smug  green  cauliflowers ;  and  the  blue  of  the  distance 
seems  artificial. 

"I  am  sure  there  can  be  nothing  so  lovely  as  that  in 
India,  Mr.  Grant,"  said  Mrs.  Lockhart. 

"A  bare  rock  would  be  lovelier  than  India  to  me  if  it 
bore  the  name  of  England,"  he  replied.  "I  thank  God 
that  I  shall  die,  after  all,  within  hail  of  so  sweet  a  plain 
as  that." 

"No I". said  Marion,  in  a  low,  disturbed  voice.  Her 
horse  was  standing  close  to  that  side  of  the  carriage  on 
which  Mr.  Grant  sat,  and  the  word  was  audible  only  to 
him.  He  looked  round  at  her  and  added  with  a  smile, 
"In  the  fullness  of  time." 

The  coachman  began  to  point  out  the  points  of  interest : 
"  That 's  Twickenham  Church,  ma'am.  Mr.  Pope's  willa 
is  a  bit  furder  down.  Yonder 's  Mr.  Grace  Walpole's 


148  DUST. 

place.  Of  a  clear  day,  sir,  you  may  see  Winser  Cassel, 
twenty  mile  off.  Ilepsom  will  be  that-away,  sir." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?"  Philip  asked  Marion. 

"  It  has  a  homely  look,"  she  answered — "home-like,  I 
mean." 

"Yes;  we  might  ride  round  the  world,  and  not  find  a 
better  home  than  that,"  said  he,  pointing  down  the  de- 
clivity to  a  house  tLat  stood  by  the  margin  of'  the  river, 
on  a  smooth  green  lawn  overshadowed  by  stately  elms. 

"Or  a  worse  one,  maybe  I"  she  returned  coldly.  But 
the  next  moment  she  glanced  at  him  with  a  smile  that 
was  not  so  cold. 

The  party  moved  on  once  more,  and  at  the  end  of  a 
little  more  climbing,  reached  the  famous  inn,  which,  at 
that  epoch,  was  a  much  less  grandiloquent  structure  than 
it  is  now,  and  infinitely  more  humane  toward  its  guests. 
The  riders  dismounted,  the  horses  were  led  to  the  stable ; 
and  Mr.  Grant,  having  had  a  confidential  consultation 
with  the  host  and  the  head  waiter,  proposed  to  his  friends 
a  ramble  in  the  park.  So  off  they  all  went,  at  first  in  a 
group ;  but  after  a  while  Mrs.  Lockhart  wished  to  sit 
down  on  a  bench  that  was  wedged  between  two  oaks  of 
mighty  girth ;  and  as  Mr.  Grant  seemed  equally  inclined 
to  repose,  Philip  presently  drew  Marion  away  across  the 
glade.  It  dipped  through  a  fern-brake,  and  then  sloped 
upward  again  to  a  grove  of  solemn  oaks,  each  one  of 
which  might  have  afforded  house  room  to  a  whole  family 
of  dryads. 

"I  remember  this  grove,"  Philip  remarked ;  "I  was 
here  long  ago — nearly  twenty  years.  I  was  an  Eton  boy 
then.  It  has  changed  very  little." 

"  Less  than  you  have." 

"I  sometimes  doubt  whether  I  am  much  changed 
either.  What  is  it  changes  a  man  ?  His  body  grows, 
and  he  fills  his  memory  with  good  and  bad.  But  only 
so  much  of  what  he  learns  stays  with  him  as  naturally 


DUST.  149 

belongs  to  him ;  the  knowledge  he  gains  is  only  the  con- 
firmation of  what  he  knew  before.  A  word  is  not  changed 
by  magnifying  it." 

"  But  if  you  put  in  another  syllable —  ?" 

"Yes,  then  it  becomes  different:  either  more  or  less 
than  it  was  before,  or,  may  be,  nonsense.  But  it  is  not 
learning  that  can  put  a  new  syllable  into  a  man." 

"What  does,  then?" 

Philip  did  not  immediately  reply ;  but  by-and-by  he 
said,  "I  believe  Providence  meant  our  brains  only  to 
show  us  what  fools  we  are.  At  least,  that 's  the  most 
mine  have  done  for  me.  The  more  fuel  we  put  into  it, 
and  the  more  light  it  gives  out,  the  more  clearly  does  it 
reveal  to  us  our  smallness  and  poverty." 

"  Perhaps— if  we  turn  the  light  against  ourselves.  But 
clever  people  generally  prefer  to  throw  light  upon  the 
smallness  and  poverty  of  others." 

Again  Philip  paused  for  several  moments;  then  he 
said  suddenly,  his  eyes  darkening,  "By  God,  were  I  to 
be  tried  for  my  life,  I  would  not  choose  you  for  my 
judge  I" 

They  were  sitting  together  on  the  roots  of  one  of  the 
oaks.  Marion  turned  her  head  slowly  and  encountered 
Philip's  look.  She  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  his, 
saying,  "Forgive  me." 

He  grasped  her  hand  and  held  it.  At  first  she  made  a 
movement  as  if  to  withdraw  it ;  but,  meeting  his  eyes 
again,  she  let  it  remain.  She  looked  away;  a  long 
breath,  intermittently  drawn,  filled  her  bosom.  The 
contact  of  her  hand,  sensitive  and  alive,  was  more  sig- 
nificant than  a  kiss  to  Philip.  He  did  not  venture  to 
move  or  to  speak;  thoughts  flew  quickly  through  his 
mind — thoughts  that  he  could  not  analyze;  but  they 
were  born  of  such  emotions  as  joy,  eagerness,  self-dis- 
trust, the  desire  to  be  nobler  and  better  than  he  had 
ever  been :  a  feeling  of  tender  pathos.  A  voice  in  his 


150  DUST. 

heart  kept  repeating  "  Marion !  Marion  1  Marion  I"  with 
a  sense  that  everything  womanly  and  sacred  was  implied 
in  that  name.  He  felt,  also,  that  a  sort  of  accident  had 
brought  him  nearer  to  her  than  he  had  as  yet  a  right  to 
come :  that  he  must  wait,  and  give  her  time. 

They  got  up,  at  last,  hy  a  mutual  impulse,  after  how 
long  a  time  they  kne\v  not.  They  had  spoken  no  words. 
They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  and  each  be- 
held in  the  other  something  that  had  not  been  visible 
before :  there  was  a  certain  surprise  and  softness  in  the 
look.  The  touch  of  the  hands  was  over ;  but  they  seemed 
to  be  encircled  by  a  secret  sympathy  that  sweetly  se- 
cluded them  from  all  foreign  approach.  The  nearness 
was  spiritual,  and  demanded  a  degree  of  physical  seve- 
rance. They  moved  along,  with  a  space  between  them, 
but  intimately  conscious  of  each  other. 

Presently  Philip  said,  "  I  am  changed  now ;  but  you 
see,  it  was  not  memory  or  knowledge  that  changed  me." 

"  Do  you  like  the  change  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  like  to  think  how  much  time  I  have  wasted 
without  changing.1' 

"Perhaps,  since  it  pleases  you  so  well,  you  '11  want  to 
change  again  ?" 

"  I  'm  afraid  JTOU  will  never  change  !"  he  returned,  with 
a  cadence  of  half-humorous  expostulation.  "  There  '11  be 
no  more  change  in  me  this  side  death." 

As  he  spoke  he  looked  toward  her ;  she  was  walking 
with  eyes  downcast,  a  doubtful  smile  coming  and  going 
about  her  lips.  About  a  hundred  yards  beyond,  in  the 
line  of  his  glance,  a  man  and  a  woman  on  horseback 
passed  rapidly  across  an  opening  between  two  groups  of 
trees.  Just  before  they  swept  out  of  sight  the  woman 
turned  her  face  in  Philip's  direction,  and  immediately 
made  a  gesture  with  her  right  hand.  Whether  it  were 
a  signal  of  recognition,  or  whether  it  had  no  reference 
to  him,  Philip  could  not  decide.  A  painful  sensation 


DUST.  151 

passed  through  his  mind ;  but  he  was  glad  that  the  epi- 
sode had  escaped  Marion's  notice.  Soon  after  they 
rejoined  Mrs.  Lockhart  and  Mr.  Grant ;  and  Marion 
seemed  to  be  relieved  to  be  once  more,  as  it  were,  under 
their  protection.  The  importunity  of  an  ungauged  and 
unfamiliar  joy  may  affect  the  heart  like  a  danger. 

For  the  rest  of  the  day,  accordingly,  the  four  remained 
together,  and,  save  for  some  slight  intermittent  anxiety 
on  Philip's  part,  they  were  all  as  happy  as  human  beings 
are  apt  to  be.  Marion  and  Philip  said  very  little  to 
each  other,  and  that  of  the  most  conventional  descrip- 
tion ;  but  an  inward  smile,  that  seldom  ventured  beyond 
the  eyes,  illuminated  both  of  them.  Meanwhile,  Mrs. 
Lockhart  certainly,  and  Mr.  Grant  apparently,  were 
most  comfortably  unconscious  of  anything  exceptional 
having  taken  place.  The  serene  geniality  of  the  weather 
was  perfectly  reflected  in  the  sentiments  of  those  who 
enjoyed  it.  When  the  air  of  the  hill  had  made  them  re- 
member that  something  was  to  be  done  at  the  inn,  they 
betook  themselves  thither,  and  were  shown  into  a  western 
room,  whose  open  window  gave  upon  the  famous  pros- 
pect. Here  a  table  was  set  out  and  dinner  served  by  a 
profoundly  respectable  and  unexceptionable  waiter,  who 
had  the  air  of  having  spent  his  previous  life  in  perfecting 
himself  for  this  occasion.  They  had  a  couple  of  bottles 
of  very  delicate  Lafitte ;  and  always,  before  raising  his 
glass  to  his  lips,  Philip  lifted  his  eyes,  and  quaffed  an 
instant's  sweet  intelligence  from  Marion's. 

"How  do  you  find  the  wine,  Lancaster?"  Mr.  Grant 
asked. 

"I  wish  I  might  never  drink  any  other,"  was  his 
reply. 

"It  is  very  good,  but  it  goes  to  my  head,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Lockhart. 

"  It  goes  to  my  heart,"  said  Philip. 

"All  the  same,  you  may  feel  the  worse  for   it  to- 


152  DUST. 

morrow  morning,"  said  Marion,  with  one  of  her  short 
laughs. 

"A  heartache  instead  of  a  headache,"  smiled  Mr. 
Grant. 

"  Heartache  would  come  only  from  being  denied  it," 
Philip  rejoined. 

"  I  must  try  and  get  you  some  of  it  to  drink  at  home," 
said  guileless  Mrs.  Lockhart. 

"  'Tis  Lafitte — you  may  get  it  anywhere,"  put  in  Ma- 
rion. As  she  spoke  she  pushed  back  her  chair  from  the 
table,  adding,  "Come,  mamma,  we  have  had  enough; 
let  us  go  out  on  the  terrace."  So  she  triumphed  over 
Philip  in  having  the  last  word. 

The  afternoon  was  mellowing  toward  evening  by  the 
time  the  unexceptionable  waiter  announced  that  the  car- 
riage and  horses  were  waiting.  As  Philip  helped  Marion 
to  her  seat  he  said : 

"After  all,  it  is  not  so  long  a  ride  round  the  world, 
is  it  ?» 

She  answered :  "  I  don't  know.  We  are  not  got  home 
yet,  remember." 

Going  down  the  hill,  they  halted  at  the  spot  whence 
they  had  first  caught  the  view  on  ascending,  to  take  a 
farewell  look  at  it.  A  noise  of  hoofs  following  down  the 
road  above  caused  Philip  to  look  around,  and  he  saw 
approaching  the  same  lady  and  gentleman  whom  he  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  in  the  park  that  morning.  The 
blood  flew  to  his  face,  and  he  set  his  teeth  against  his 
lips. 

The  lady,  riding  up,  saluted  him  with  her  whip,  ex- 
claiming laughingly,  "  Philip  Lancaster,  after  all  1  You 
naughty  boy — then  it  was  you  I  saw  coming  out  of  the. 
grove,  and  you  would  not  answer  my  greeting  I" 

"  Indeed  1"  was  all  Philip  found  to  reply. 

She  reined  her  horse  and  extended  her  hand  to  him. 
"  Indeed  I  Yes.  But  you  were  always  so  1  .  .  .  well, 


DUST.  153 

I  forgive  you  because  of  your  poetry."  Here  she  turned 
her  eyes,  which  were  very  bright  and  beautiful,  upon 
the  occupants  of  the  carriage.  "  Surely  I  have  known 
this  lady,"  she  murmured.  ''Madame,  are  you  not  Mrs. 
Lockhart  ?  Oh — then  this — yes,  this  must  be  Marion  I" 
She  clapped  her  hands  together  with  a  sort  of  child-like 
gayety.  "And  you  have  all  forgotten  me  I  You  have 
forgotten  Perdita  Bendibow !" 

Hereupon  ensued  a  sociable  turmoil — giving  of  hands 
— presentation  of  Mr.  Grant — and  of  Perdita's  cavalier, 
who  was  no  other  than  Tom  Bendibow,  the  hero  of  the 
coach-upsetting  exploit.  But  the  chief  turmoil  was  in 
Philip's  mind.  Everything  passed  before  his  eyes  like  a 
dream — and  an  extremely  uncongenial  one.  Once  or 
twice  he  glanced  at  Marion ;  but  she  was  not  looking  his 
way — she  was  laughing  and  chatting  with  the  Marquise 
and  Tom  Bendibow  alternately;  there  was  vivid  color 
in  her  cheeks.  Philip  was  also  aware  that  the  Marquise 
occasionally  spoke  to  him,  or  at  him,  in  very  friendly 
and  familiar  terms.  It  was  charming.  And  at  last  she 
said : 

"There,  I  cannot  stay — I  am  late;  but  you  will  come 
— mind  !  You  have  all  promised.  There  will  be  no  one 
but  ourselves.  Thursday — a  week  from  this  day — at  six 
o'clock.  Mr.  Grant  and  all.  You  will  not  forget,  Mr. 
Grant  ?" 

"I  shall  not  forget,  madame,"  he  said  gravely  and 
courteously. 

"And  you,  ma  chere,"  she  continued,  turning  to  Ma- 
rion ;  and  then  playfully  tapping  Philip  with  her  whip, 
"  because  then  we  shall  be  sure  of  him  I  Mrs.  Lockhart, 
I  have  so  much  to  talk  to  you  of  your  dear  husband 
...  he  saved  my  husband's  life  1  ...  I  must  kiss 
you  !"  She  forced  her  horse  to  the  side  of  the  carriage, 
and,  bending  low  from  the  saddle,  touched  the  old  lady's 
cheek  with  her  lovely  lips.  The  next  moment  she  was 


164  DUST. 

erect  again.  "  Come,  Tom !"  she  exclaimed,  "  we  must 
gallop  I  Good-by,  all  of  you  1"  and  down  the  hill  they 
rode  at  speed. 

"  How  charming  and  beautiful  she  is  1"  said  Mrs.  Lock- 
hart,  smiling  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  She  has  a  warm 
heart.  She  has  made  the  day  quite  perfect." 

"Yes,  she  appeared  at  the  right  moment,"  assented 
Marion  lightly. 

In  one  sense,  certainly,  Perdita  could  be  said  to  have 
been  the  consummation  of  the  holiday ;  but,  even  in  a 
party  of  four,  the  same  event  may  have  widely  different 
meanings, 


CHAPTER  XY. 

MR.  GRANT,  like  other  men  in  whom  a  quiet  demeanor 
is  the  result  rather  of  experience  than  of  temperament, 
was  very  observant ;  and  he  had  observed  several  things 
during  and  after  the  day  at  Richmond.  It  may  be  assumed 
that  he  had  not  planned  that  expedition  without  some 
anticipation  that  it  might  have  results  particularly  affect- 
ing Philip  and  Marion ;  and  up  to  the  moment  when  the 
party  were  overtaken,  on  their  way  home,  by  the  Marquise 
Desmoines,  he  had  reason  to  think  that  his  anticipations 
had  not  been  deceived.  Since  that  moment,  however,  a 
change  had  taken  place.  Philip  had  worn  an  aspect  of 
gloomy  dejection  at  variance  with  his  customary  bearing ; 
and  Marion's  mood  had  been  exaggerated  and  unequal ; 
sometimes  manifesting  an  over-accented  gayety,  at  other 
times  relapsing  abruptly  and  without  apparent  cause  into 
depths  of  wayward  perversity.  This  state  of  things  con- 
tinued without  much  modification  for  several  dajrs ;  it 
being  further  noticeable  that  the  young  people  avoided 
private  interviews,  or  at  any  rate  did  not  have  any :  for, 
if  Philip  desired  them,  Marion  had  the  means  of  balking 
his  desire.  In  the  presence  of  other  persons,  however, 
she  seemed  not  averse  from  holding  converse  with  him, 
but  her  speech  on  such  occasions  had  a  mocking  and  un- 
conciliating  ring  about  it ;  and  Philip's  replies  were  brief 
and  unenterprising.  Evidently,  the  pegs  that  made  their 
music  had  been  set  down  awry.  There  had  been  some 
sweet  melody  for  a  while.  "Who  was  their  lago  ? 

"What  a  very  charming  lady  is  the  Marquise  Des- 
moines," remarked  Mr.  Grant  one  day  to  Philip.  "I 
155 


156  DUST. 

have  seldom  seen  a  more  lovely  face  or  a  more  engaging 
manner." 

"Yes,"  returned  the  young  man,  looking  away,  and 
drumming  on  the  table  with  his  fingers. 

"  It  was  easy  to  see  that  you  and  she  were  on  the  best 
of  terms  with  each  other,"  the  old  gentleman  continued. 

Philip  folded  his  arms,  and  tapped  on  the  floor  with 
his  foot. 

"  She  seemed  to  take  a  great  fancy  to  Marion,"  Mr. 
Grant  went  on.  "They  bid  fair  to  become  great  friends. 
It  would  be  an  excellent  thing  for  Marion,  would  it  not  ?" 

"Upon  my  word,  sir,  it's  none  of  my  business,"  ex- 
claimed Philip,  rather  impatiently.  "Miss  Lockhart 
will  choose  her  friends  to  please  herself,  I  presume.  If 
it  were  my  place  to  offer  her  advice  in  the  matter,  it 
might  be  different.  With  your  permission,  I  prefer  not 
to  discuss  the  subject." 

"As  you  please,  my  dear  Philip,"  replied  Mr.  Grant, 
composedly  taking  snuff.  "  For  my  own  part,  it  appeared 
to  me  that  the  Marquise  could  give  Marion  those  social 
advantages  and  opportunities  that  she  especially  needs. 
This  invitation  to  her  soiree  will  probably  be  the  precur- 
sor of  others.  By  the  by,  you  will  be  present,  of  course  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  is  my  intention,"  said  Philip,  after  a  pause ; 
and  his  tone  had  something  defiant  or  threatening  in  it, 
as  if  he  meant  not  only  to  be  present,  but  to  do  some 
deed  of  note  when  he  got  there. 

The  Marquise's  party  was,  as  she  had  intimated, 
strictly  limited  as  to  numbers.  It  was  not  her  wish  to 
begin  her  formal  entertainments  as  yet;  her  bereave- 
ment was  still  too  recent,  and,  moreover,  her  new  house 
was  not  in  order.  She  might,  possibly,  have  contrived 
to  get  along  without  giving  any  party  at  all,  just  at 
present ;  but  she  was  enough  a  woman  of  the  world  not 
always  to  demand  logical  behavior  of  herself,  any  more 
than  to  expect  it  in  other  people.  She  wished  to  feel 


DUST.  157 

the  atmosphere  of  the  new  society  into  which  she  was 
about  to  enter,  and  to  compare  it  with  that  which  she 
had  left.  It  would  be  novel;  it  might  or  it  might  not 
be  preferable.  The  Marquise  might  decide,  upon  this 
experiment,  not  to  settle  in  London  after  all.  Straws 
may  show  how  the  wind  blows.  She  had  no  one's 
pleasure  or  convenience  to  think  of  but  her  own.  There 
was  not  even  the  Marquis  now,  who,  if  he  did  not  have 
things  his  own  way,  at  all  events  had  occasionally  af- 
forded her  the  gratification  of  having  hers  in  spite  of 
him ;  and  whose  demise  she  perhaps  regretted  as  much 
on  that  account  as  on  any  other.  For  the  lady  was  of  a 
strong  and  valiant  disposition,  and  wanted  something 
more  in  life  than  abject  assent,  and  yielding  beds  of 
down.  She  wanted  resistance,  almost  defeat,  in  order 
to  give  zest  to  victory.  She  wanted  a  strong  man  to 
fight  with.  In  her  heart,  she  believed  she  was  stronger 
than  any  man  she  was  likely  to  come  across ;  but  there 
were  men,  no  doubt,  who  might  be  formidable  enough  to 
be  temporarily  interesting.  What  manner  of  man  in 
other  respects  this  champion  might  be,  would  matter 
little  to  the  Marquise.  Like  most  women  of  first-rate 
ability  she  was  at  bottom  a  democrat :  rank  was  her  con- 
venience, but  she  had  no  respect  for  it  or  belief  in  it. 
Had  she  detected,  in  a  stevedore  or  Hindoo,  stuff  that 
was  not  to  be  had  elsewhere,  she  would  have  received 
and  entertained  him.  Meanwhile,  she  was  well  content 
to  put  up  with  Philip  Lancaster.  There  was  stuff  in 
him :  there  was  perhaps  something  in  his  past  relations 
with  her  which  rendered  their  present  mutual  attitude 
more  piquant ;  and  then,  there  was  that  little  bud  of  a 
romance  which  the  Marquise  had  surprised  on  Richmond 
Hill.  Upon  the  whole  she  was  justified  in  giving  her 
little  party. 

Sir  Francis  Bendibow  was  the  first  to  arrive,  bringing 
with  him  Merton  Fillmore,  whom  he  introduced  as  fol- 


158  DUST. 

lows:  "A  man,  my  dear  creature,  whom  I've  long 
wished  to  make  known  to  you.  Most  brilliant  fellow  in 
London ;  my  personal  friend,  as  well  as  the  trusted  ad- 
viser of  the  House."  He  added  in  her  ear,  "  You  know 
— Fillmore,  son  of  old  Cadwallader  Fillmore  .  .  .  uncle 
the  Honorable  .  .  .  and  Constance,  you  know  .  .  . 
married  Lord  Divorn  .  .  .  that's  the  man!  make 
friends  with  each  other." 

"I  think,"  said  the  Marquise,  glancing  at  the  lawyer 
as  she  gave  him  her  hand,  "that  Mr.  Fillmore  is  more 
accustomed  to  choose  his  friends  than  to  be  chosen." 

This  bit  of  impromptu  criticism  arrested  Fillmore's 
attention.  After  a  pause  he  said : 

"  My  friends  are  my  clients,  and  I  don't  choose  them." 

"  I  mean,  you  have  not  found  it  wise  to  be  troubled 
with  women.  If  I  were  a  man  I  might  think  as  you  do, 
but  I  should  act  otherwise.  But  then  I  should  not  be  a 
barrister." 

"I  am  a  solicitor." 

The  Marquise  laughed.  "Men  of  real  genius  distin- 
guish their  professions — they  are  not  distinguished  by 
them  .  .  .  I  comprehend !" 

"You  would  have  made  a  better  solicitor  than  I," 
said  Fillmore,  with  something  like  a  smile.  "Your 
cross-examination  would  be  very  damaging."  . 

"  We  shall  be  all  the  better  friends,"  rejoined  the  Mar- 
quise, good  humoredly.  "Mr.  Fillmore  is  charming," 
she  added  to  Sir  Francis,  who  had  just  returned  from  a 
promenade  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  where  he  had 
been  admiring  himself  in  a  looking-glass,  under  cover  of 
smelling  a  vase  of  flowers  on  the  mantelpiece. 

"Aye,  indeed,  kindred  spirits,"  said  the  baronet,  nod- 
ding and  smiling  complacently.  "  But  how  is  this,  eh  ? 
May  we  hope  to  monopolize  these  privileges  all  the  eve- 
ning?" 

"  Here  comes  a  rival,"  answered  the  Marquise,  as  the 


DUST.  159 

door  opened,  and  Mr.  Thomas  Bendibow  was  ushered  in. 
"  I  expect  Mr.  Philip  Lancaster  also.  Do  you  know  him, 
Mr.  Fillmore  ?  How  do  you  do,  Tom  ?  What  lovely 
flowers !  For  me  ?  You  are  preux  chevalier;  that  is 
more  than  your  papa  ever  did  for  me." 

"You  know  I  don't  think  of  anything  but  you — well, 
I  don't,  by  George  !  Oh,  I  say,  don't  you  look  ravishing 
to-night,  Perdita  !"  exclaimed  this  ingenuous  youth.  "  I 
say,  there  ain't  any  other  people  coming,  are  there  ?  I 
want  to  have  you  all  to  myself  to-night." 

"  Tom,  you  are  not  to  make  love  to  your  sister — before 
company  1" 

"Oh,  sister  be !  I  know — you  are  going  to  flirt 

with  that  Lancaster  fellow —  " 

"  You  have  not  told  me  if  you  know  Mr.  Lancaster  ?" 
said  the  Marquise,  turning  to  Merton  Fillmore. 

"I  have  read  his  'Sunshine  of  Revolt,'  "  replied  the 
solicitor. 

"  Good  Gad !"  ejaculated  Sir  Francis,  below  his  breath. 
He  was  gazing  toward  the  doorway,  in  which  several 
persons  now  appeared — the  Lockhart  party,  in  fact — and 
his  ruddy  visage  became  quite  pallid. 

The  Marquise's  beautiful  eyes  lighted  up.  She  had 
had  some  secret  doubts  as  to  whether  Lancaster  would 
come,  for  she  understood  not  a  little  of  the  intricacies 
of  that  gentleman's  character ;  but  here  he  was,  and 
she  felt  that  she  had  scored  the  first  success  in  the  en- 
counter. To  get  the  better  of  any  one,  the  first  condi- 
tion is  to  get  him  within  your  reach.  But  Perdita  took 
care  that  the  brightness  of  her  eyes  should  not  shine 
upon  Philip  too  soon.  She  turned  first  upon  Mrs.  Lock- 
hart  and  Marion.  She  had  taken  the  former's  measure 
at  first  sight,  and  knew  kow  to  make  her  feel  pleased 
and  at  ease.  Marion  was  a  more  complex  problem ; 
but  Marion  did  not  know  the  world,  and  it  was  simple 
enough  to  disappoint  her  probable  anticipation  that  the 


160  DUST. 

Marquise  would  at  once  monopolize  Philip.  The  Mar- 
quise lost  no  time  in  introducing  Philip  to  Mr.  Fillmore, 
on  the  basis  of  the  latter 's  having  read  "The  Sunshine 
of  Revolt,"  and  left  the  two  gentlemen  to  make  friends 
or  foes  of  each  other  as  they  might  see  fit.  She  then 
devoted  herself  to  the  two  ladies,  and  incidentally  to 
Mr.  Grant,  whom  she  had  invited  simply  as  a  friend  of 
theirs,  and  in  whom  she  took  no  particular  interest. 
Mr.  Thomas  Bendibow,  considering  himself  slighted, 
strolled  off  into  an  adjoining  room  to  indulge  his  wrongs 
over  a  glass  of  sherry.  The  baronet,  who  was  almost 
manifestly  laboring  under  some  unusual  embarrassment 
or  emotion,  attached  himself,  after  some  hesitation,  to 
the  Marquise's  party,  and  endeavored  to  monopolize  the 
conversation  of  Mr.  Grant.  That  gentleman,  however, 
met  his  advances  with  a  quiet  reticence,  which  was  be- 
yond Sir  Francis'  skill  to  overcome.  By  degrees  he 
found  himself  constrained  to  address  himself  more  and 
more  to  Mrs.  and  Miss  Lockhart;  and  Perdita,  some- 
what to  her  own  surprise,  was  drawn  more  and  more  to 
look  and  speak  to  Mr.  Grant.  There  was  something 
about  him — in  his  old-fashioned  but  noticeable  aspect, 
in  his  quiet,  observant  manner — in  the  things  he  said — 
that  arrested  the  Marquise's  attention  in  spite  of  herself. 
Here  was  a  man  who  had  seen  and  known  something  :  a 
man — not  a  suit  of  clothes,  with  a  series  of  set  grimaces, 
attitudes  and  phrases.  Manhood  had  an  invincible  at- 
traction for  this  lady,  no  matter  what  the  guise  in  which 
it  presented  itself  to  her.  At  last  she  and  Mr.  Grant  in- 
sensibly settled  down  to  what  was  practically  a  tete-a-tete. 

"You  must  find  it  lonely  here  in  England  after  so 
many  years,"  she  said. 

"My  exile  is  a  cage  of  invisibility  for  me,"  answered 
Mr.  Grant.  "I  find  few  to  see  and  recognize  me,  but 
that  does  not  prevent  me  from  seeing  and  recognizing 
much  that  is  familiar.  I  find  that  England  stands  where 


DUST.  161 

it  did,  and  is  none  the  less  homelike  for  having  forgotten 
me.  Indeed,  one  may  say,  without  being  cynical,  that 
the  memory  of  old  friends  is  almost  as  pleasant,  and  in 
some  respects  more  convenient,  than  their  presence 
would  be." 

The  Marquise  laughed.  "I  think  your  old  friends 
might  call  that  cynical,  if  they  could  hear  it." 

"You  would  recognize  its  truth  in  your  own  case," 
said  Mr.  Grant,  half  interrogatively. 

She  lifted  her  eyebrows,  as  if  the  remark  required  ex- 
planation. 

"  An  old  fellow  like  me  sometimes  knows  more  about 
the  origins  of  the  younger  generation  than  they  know 
themselves.  I  had  the  honor  of  your  acquaintance  when 
you  were  learning  to  say  'Papa,'  and  wore  little  pink 
slippers." 

"  Ah  !"  murmured  the  Marquise,  looking  at  him  keenly. 
"Then  .  .  .  "  she  paused. 

"And  your  father  also,"  said  Mr.  Grant,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Sir  Francis  Bendibow,"  said  Perdita,  after  a  pause. 

Mr.  Grant  met  her  glance,  and  said  nothing. 

"Now  I  think  of  it,"  remarked  Perdita,  tapping  her 
chin  lightly  with  the  handle  of  her  fan.  "  I  am  inclined 
to  agree  with  you.  Memories  may  sometimes  be  more 
convenient  than  presence." 

"It  is  not  always  the  convenient  that  happens,  how- 
ever," rejoined  the  old  gentleman.  "And  convenience 
itself  may  sometimes,  on  some  accounts,  be  less  desirable 
than  an  acceptance  of  facts.  If  Sir  Francis  Bendibow, 
let  us  say,  had  been  suspected  of  a  grave  indiscretion  in 
early  life,  and  had  in  consequence  disappeared  from 
society,  leaving  his  family  behind  him — " 

"  His  family  would  probably,  in  the  course  of  time, 
become  reconciled  to  his  absence,"  interrupted  Perdita, 
coloring  slightly.  "  Human  relationship  is  not  so  rigid 


162  LUST. 

and  important  a  matter  as  romancers  and  sentimen- 
talists try  to  make  it  out,  Mr.  Grant.  As  long  as  my 
child,  or  my  husband,  or  my  father  continues  to  live 
within  my  sight  and  reach,  I  acknowledge  myself  the 
mother,  wife,  or  daughter,  and  conduct  myself  accord- 
ingly. But  if  they  vanish  from  my  knowledge  and  re- 
membrance, I  learn  to  do  without  them,  and  they  have 
no  further  concern  with  me.  If  they  die,  I  shall  not 
weep  for  them,  and  if  they  return,  I  shall  not  care  for 
them.  If  I  were  more  imaginative,  or  more  inclined  to 
feel  my  emotions  to  order,  it  might  be  otherwise.  But 
it  is  my  nature  to  feel  my  own  emotions,  and  not  other 
people's,  and  to  see  things  as  they  are,  and  not  as  poetry 
pretends.  My  father,  sir,  is  not  the  man  who  brought 
me  into  the  world  and  then  abandoned  me,  but — on  the 
whole,"  she  added,  suddenly  and  completely  changing 
her  tone  and  manner,  and  speaking  smilingly,  "I  prefer 
to  say  that  I  have  no  father  at  all,  and  want  none." 

Her  speech  had  been  more  like  that  of  a  frigid  and 
saturnine  man,  than  like  the  utterance  of  a  beautiful  and 
youthful  woman.  Mr.  Grant  had  listened  to  it  atten- 
tively. He  appeared  to  meditate  for  a  few  moments 
after  she  had  ceased,  and  then  he  said,  "I  too  have  felt 
the  force  of  circumstances,  and  should  be  the  last  to 
underrate  it.  Ambassadors,  you  know  " — here  he  smiled 
a  little — "are  less  deaf  to  the  voice  of  reason  than  prin- 
cipals might  be.  I  am  intrusted  with  plenary  powers, 
and  may  relinquish  my  side  of  the  discussion  definitively. 
I  should  regret  my  mission,  were  it  not  that  it  has  ob- 
tained me  a  charming  and  valuable  acquaintance" — here 
he  bowed  ceremoniously — "which  I  trust  may  continue. 
If  I  have  annoyed  you,  be  satisfied  that  I  shall  never 
subject,  you  to  the  same  annoyance  again — nor  to  any 
other,  I  hope." 

"I  have  made  no  disguise  of  my  selfishness,  you  see," 
said  the  Marquise,  with  gayety  in  her  voice,  but  with 


DUST.  163 

a  somewhat  contradictory  expression  about  her  eyes 
and  mouth.  After  a  moment  she  went  on  as  if  impelled, 
despite  a  certain  reluctance,  "  But  I  am  unselfish  too,  as 
you  will  find  out  if  you  come  to  know  me  better.  You 
will  find  out  that  I  am  not  a  daughter  whom  any  parent 
with  a  sense  of  prudence  and  self-respect  would  put  out 
his  hand  to  reclaim."  And  hereupon  the  Marquise 
laughed,  while  tears  sparkled  for  an  instant  on  her  eye- 
lashes. 

"What  says  our  fair  hostess,"  called  out  the  voice  of 
Sir  Francis  Bendibow,  from  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
where  he  was  conversing  with  the  other  two  ladies, 
while  his  eyes  and  thoughts  were  elsewhere ;  "  Should 
a  man  who  loves  two  women  give  up  both  of  them,  or 
settle  upon  one?  Come,  ladies,  the  Marquise  shall  be 
our  umpire — eh  ?" 

"It  is  not  a  question  for  an  umpire  to  decide,"  replied 
the  Marquise.  "Let  the  man  put  his  case  before  the  two 
women,  and  leave  them  to  settle  it  between  themselves." 

"But  we  are  supposing  him  to  be  an  ordinary  man, 
not  a  hero." 

"  Then  he  would  not  find  more  than  one  woman  to  be 
in  love  with  him." 

"And  it  might  turn  out,"  remarked  Marion,  "that  he 
was  deceived  in  supposing  himself  capable  of  being  really 
in  love  with  anybody." 

"If  he  were  a  hero,  I  'm  sure  he  would  not  love  more 
than  one,"  said  Mrs.  Lockhart,  gently. 

"Altogether,  your  problem  appears  to  have  been  de- 
prived of  all  its  conditions,"  observed  Fillmore,  who  with 
Philip  Lancaster,  had  approached  during  the  discussion. 

"A  man  who  really  loves  one  woman,  finds  in  her  all 
that  is  worth  loving  in  all  women,"  Lancaster  said. 

"A  poet's  eyes,"  remarked  the  Marquise,  "create,  in 
the  woman  he  loves,  nine-tenths  of  what  he  sees  there." 

"And   may  blind   him,  for  a  time,  to   nine-tenths 


164  DUST. 

more,"  was  the  poet's  reply ;  at  which  every  one  laughed 
except  Mrs.  Lockhart  and  Mr.  Grant,  but  which  very 
few  understood. 

After  this,  the  company  readjusted  itself:  the  Mar- 
quise made  Philip  sit  down  and  talk  to  her  and  Marion ; 
and  the  three  gradually  got  on  very  good  terms  with 
one  another.  Meanwhile,  Sir  Francis  improved  his  op- 
portunity to  buttonhole  Fillmore,  and  drew  him  into 
the  next  room,  where  Mr.  Thomas  Bendibow  was  sit- 
ting, still  in  the  sulks,  behind  a  large  pot  of  azaleas  in 
the  embrasure  of  the  window. 

"What  did  I  tell  you  ?"  exclaimed  the  baronet,  hush- 
ing his  voice,  but  with  a  vehement  gesture.  "Did  you 
ever  see  anything  like  that  fellow's  assurance?  Damn 
him,  he  was  tete-a-tete  with  her  for  half  an  hour.  Ten  to 
one  he  's  told  her  the  whole  thing." 

"What  thing ?"  inquired  Fillmore  composedly. 

"Why,  that  he  's  her  father,  and—" 

"Well,  since  he  is  her  father,  I  know  of  no  law  to  pre- 
vent him  saying  so." 

"  Damme,  no,  if.  that  were  all :  but  how  do  I  know  what 
pack  of  lies  he  may  have  been  telling  her  about  me — " 

"Come,  Bendibow,  don't  be  a  fool.  If  I  were  you,  I 
shouldn't  mind  what  lies  he  told  her  about  me,  so  long 
as  I  was  sure  that  no  truth  he  might  tell  would  do  me 
any  harm.  Besides,  Mr.  Grant,  or  whatever  his  name 
is,  does  not  look  to  me  like  a  scoundrel  or  a  liar.  And 
the  Marquise  does  not  seem  to  be  a  lady  likely  to  let  her- 
self be  imposed  upon,  or  to  act  imprudently.  You  have 
not  been  open  with  me  about  this  matter,  Sir  Francis. 
You  are  afraid  to  act  against  this  man,  and  you  are  con- 
cealing the  reason  from  me.  I  don't  ask  it,  and  I  don't 
want  to  know  it.  But  I  am  not  going  to  undertake  any- 
thing in  the  dark.  You  must  manage  the  affair  without 
my  co-operation.  You  should  have  known  me  well 
enough  never  to  have  invited  it." 


DUST.  165 

Several  expressions — of  anger,  of  dismay,  of  perplexity 
— had  passed  across  the  baronet's  features  while  Fillmore 
was  speaking ;  but  at  the  end  he  laughed  good  humor- 
edly,  and  put  his  hand  for  a  moment  on  the  other's 
shoulder. 

"If  I  were  to  live  with  you,  day  in  and  day  out,"  he 
said,  "you  'd  make  either  a  saint  or  a  devil  of  me  before 
six  weeks  were  over.  You  have  the  most  irritating  way 
with  you,  begad,  that  ever  I  came  across.  But  I  know 
you  're  a  good  fellow,  and  I  shan't  be  angry.  You  might 
allow  me  a  little  natural  exasperation  at  seeing  things 
go  topsy-turvy — never  mind  I  I  believe  you  're  right 
about  Perdita,  too ;  she  's  no  sentimental  fool.  Dare 
say  matters  will  come  out  all  right,  after  all.  There ! 
we  '11  think  more  about  it.  I  '11  talk  it  over  quietly  with 
Grantley — with  Grant,  you  know — ah  !  Here  we  are  1" 

The  Marquise,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Mr.  Grant,  and 
followed  by  the  rest  of  the  company,  were  entering  the 
room,  being  eome  in  quest  of  supper,  which  was  to  be 
served  here,  and  of  which  the  sherry,  whereof  Mr. 
Thomas  Bendibow  had  already  partaken,  was  but  an 
accessory.  The  Marquise  rallied  the  baronet  on  his  lack 
of  gallantry  in  not  having  been  on  hand  to  do  his  part 
in  escorting  some  one ;  and  they  all  took  their  places  at 
table  with  much  gayety  and  good  humor ;  Mr.  Thomas 
having  watched  his  opportunity,  when  no  one  was  look- 
ing in  his  direction,  to  emerge  from  the  shelter  of  the 
azaleas  and  take  his  seat  with  the  rest.  His  aspect  was 
so  dazed  and  distraught  as  to  suggest  the  suspicion  that 
the  sherry  had  been  exceptionally  potent ;  only  it  so  hap- 
pened that  no  one  noticed  him.  His  sulkiness  had  van- 
ished ;  but  from  time  to  time  he  turned  his  eyes  on  Mr. 
Grant  with  a  secret  expression  of  consternation  and  be- 
wilderment, which,  considering  the  peaceful  and  inoffen- 
sive aspect  of  that  gentleman,  seemed  rather  gratuitous. 

There  were  more  gentlemen  than  ladies  present,  and 


168  DUST. 

Mr.  Grant  chanced  to  have  Mr.  Fillmore  for  his  left-hand 
neighbor,  and  presently  fell  into  talk  with  him.  "  I  have 
heard  your  name  mentioned,"  he  remarked  at  length, 
"by  my  friend  Mrs.  Lockhart.  You  are,  I  believe,  a 
member  of  the  legal  profession  ?" 

Fillmore  inclined  his  head  in  assent. 

"  There  are  some  affairs  of  mine  which  need  putting 
in  order,"  continued  Mr.  Grant,  "and  as  they  may  require 
a  good  deal  of  judgment  for  their  proper  disposition,  I 
had  been  thinking  of  applying  to  you  for  assistance.  Will 
you  pardon  me  for  taking  advantage  of  this  unexpected 
opportunity  to  mention  the  matter  to  you  ?" 

"I  am  obliged  to  you,  sir.  You  are,  perhaps,  aware," 
added  the  lawyer,  turning  so  as  to  look  his  interlocutor 
directly  in  the  face,  "that  I  have  for  several  years  been 
legal  adviser  to  Sir  Francis  Bendibow  ?" 

"  Yes :  yes,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  was  partly  influenced 
by  that  also,"  replied  the  old  man  quietly.  "  Sir  Francis 
will  doubtless  tell  you  that  he  and  I  are  old  acquaint- 
ances :  and  I — in  short,  then,  I  may  request  you  to  ap- 
point a  time  for  our  interview." 

Fillmore  named  a  day  near  the  end  of  the  following 
week ;  and  then  relapsed  into  silence,  being  fairly  taken 
by  surprise,  and  unable  to  make  the  joints  of  his  puzzle 
fit  together.  Mr.  Grant  and  the  Marquise  were  both 
enigmas  in  different  ways,  and  worth  being  studied. 
After  a  while,  however,  he  decided  that  the  Marquise 
was  the  more  inviting,  if  not  the  more  difficult  enigma 
of  the  two ;  and  he  experienced  an  unusal  degree  of 
pleasure  in  keeping  his  eyes  upon  her.  He  was  not  in- 
clined to  think  that  anything  would  be  gained  by  her 
leaving  London. 

She  was  in  a  very  brilliant  and  fascinating  humor; 
her  talk  was  witty  and  entertaining  beyond  what  is 
common  even  with  clever  women.  Indeed,  one  who  had 
known  her  well  might  have  fancied  that  her  vivacity 


DUST.  167 

was  the  indication  of  some  excitement,  which,  perhaps, 
had  its  origin  in  something  less  enjoyable  than  the  lustre 
of  the  wax  candles  on  the  walls  and  table.  Philip  Lan- 
caster no  doubt  knew  the  Marquise  better  than  did  any 
one  else  in  that  room ;  but,  if  he  saw  more  in  her  be- 
havior than  the  others  did,  it  is  likely  that  he  accounted 
for  it  on  erroneous  grounds.  He  did  not  notice  that, 
although  she  glanced  frequently  at  Mr.  Grant,  yet  that 
gentleman  was  the  only  person  at  table  whom  she  never 
addressed.  But  Philip,  in  fact,  was  too  much  occupied 
with  his  own  affairs  to  devote  much  time  to  general 
observation.  He  was  sitting  next  to  Marion,  who  had 
young  Mr.  Bendibow  for  her  neighbor  on  the  other  side. 
Marion,  after  making  several  quite  ineffectual  attempts 
to  draw  the  latter  into  conversation,  was  at  length 
obliged  to  listen  to  Philip ;  and,  he  fancied,  less  uncon- 
ciliatingly  than  of  late.  The  events  of  the  evening  had 
been  rather  different  from  Philip's  anticipation.  He 
had  come  burdened  with  a  saturnine  resolve  to  offer 
some  deliberate  slight  to  his  hostess,  by  way  of  improv- 
ing his  position  in  the  eyes  of  his  lady-love;  but — 
whether  most  to  his  relief  or  to  his  disappointment  it 
would  be  hard  to  say — the  Marquise  had  given  him  no 
opportunity.  Save  for  one  ambiguous  remark — to  which 
he  had  made  a  prompt  rejoinder — she  had  throughout 
had  the  air  of  bringing  him  and  Marion  together,  and 
desiring  their  felicity.  When  she  had  addressed  him, 
which  had  been  but  seldom,  it  had  been  on  literary  or 
indifferent  subjects.  Philip  was  not  so  pig-headed  as  to 
fail  to  perceive  that  the  Marquise  might  make  herself 
an  exceedingly  agreeable  and  even  advantageous  friend. 
If  she  were  willing  to  forget  the  past,  all  might  be  right 
and  pleasant  in  the  future.  His  gloomy  thoughts  were 
considerably  lightened  by  these  reflections;  and  yet, 
somewhere  in  the  back  scenery  of  his  mind,  there  may 
have  been  a  faint  shadow  of  resentment  at  something — 


168  DUST. 

for  Philip,  in  spite  of  his  superior  poetic  and  intellectual 
endowments,  was  not  much  more  than  human  after  all. 

He  could  not  know  that  the  Marquise,  also,  had  found 
the  course  of  events  different  from  what  she  had  expected ; 
she  had  aimed  her  party  at  Philip,  but  had  started  quite 
other  game.  Nevertheless,  her  object  as  regarded  Philip 
had  accomplished  itself  quite  as  well  as  if  she  had  been 
able  to  pursue  it  in  her  own  way.  He  had  received  the 
impression  which  she  wished,  and  she  had  the  opportunity 
of  estimating  the  degree  of  influence  which  Marion  had 
over  him.  That  was  all  she  desired  at  the  moment.  As  for 
the  other  affair,  although  she  had  answered  Mr.  Grant 
explicitly  and  decidedly  enough,  she  was  less  decided  in 
her  own  mind;  she  meant  to  think  it  over  by  herself, 
and  to  modify  her  course  should  that  seem  ultimately 
advisable.  There  was  no  need  to  hurry  herself  about 
it;  she  would  have  ample  opportunities  for  renewing 
her  conversation  with  Mr.  Grant  whenever  she  wanted 
to  do  so.  To  discover  a  father  after  so  many  years,  was 
at  least  an  excitement  and  an  .adventure ;  and  if  Mr. 
Grant  were  really  able  to  bring  about  such  a  meeting,  it 
might  be  worth  while  to  permit  it.  But  then  it  was  de- 
sirable, in  the  first  place,  to  find  out  what  manner  of  man 
this  father  was.  Perdita,  on  questioning  her  memory, 
could  not  form  even  the  vaguest  image  of  him.  She  had 
let  herself  forget  him  easily,  and  it  was  now  too  late  to 
recall  him. 

Upon  the  whole,  destiny  seemed  to  be  in  an  interesting 
and  not  unamiable  mood.  In  reality,  destiny  had  never 
been  more  sardonically  pregnant,  as  regarded  every  one 
of  those  assembled  in  the  Marquise's  dining-room,  than 
on  that  evening. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

IT  came  to  the  knowledge  of  Sir  Francis,  during  the 
ensuing  week,  that  Mr.  Grant  was  going  to  have  a  busi- 
ness interview  with  Fillmore.  He  thereupon  took  pen 
and  paper,  and  wrote  Mr.  Grant  a  very  polite  note.  He 
said  that  he  had  been  thinking  over  their  relations  with 
each  other,  and  had  come  to  certain  conclusions  thereon, 
which  he  wished  to  communicate  to  Mr.  Grant,  in  the 
confident  belief  that  Mr.  Grant  would  not  find  them  dis- 
tasteful. To  do  this  by  letter,  however,  would  be,  for 
several  reasons,  inexpedient ;  word  of  mouth,  in  matters 
of  this  kind,  was  a  more  convenient  and  flexible  way  of 
coming  to  an  understanding.  Sir  Francis  went  on  to 
say  that  he  possessed  a  villa  in  Twickenham,  whither  he 
occasionally  repaired  during  the  summer  to  get  a  breath 
of  fresh  air.  It  chanced  that  he  had  arranged  to  drive 
out  to  this  villa  on  the  afternoon  of  Friday  next ;  and  if 
Mr.  Grant  did  not  object,  he  would  call  for  him  on  the 
way,  at  any  place  which  Mr.  Grant  would  please  to  indi- 
cate. They  would  dine  together  at  the  villa,  and  Sir 
Francis  would  then  provide  his  friend  with  a  horse  to 
ride  home  on.  Hoping  for  a  favorable  reply,  he  had  the 
honor  to  be  Mr.  Grant's  faithful  friend  and  servant, 
Francis  Bendibow. 

Mr.  Grant  replied  by  return  of  post  that  he  would  be 
happy  to  accept  Sir  Francis  Bendibow's  invitation,  and 
that  Sir  Francis  might  call  for  him  at  four  o'clock  at  the 
chambers  of  Mr.  Fillmore  in  the  city. 

"When  Sir  Francis  read  this  answer,  he  flushed  up  to 
the  roots  of  his  hair,  and  sat  quite  still  in  his  chair, 
169 


170  DUST. 

staring  fixedly  at  the  letter  which  he  held  in  his  hand, 
and  breathing  in  a  labored  and  irregular  manner.  Pres- 
ently the  color  faded  out  of  his  face,  and  he  became  ex- 
tremely pale,  and  his  hands  cold.  He  rang  the  bell,  and 
told  the  servant  to  bring  him  a  decanter  of  wine,  the 
greater  part  of  which  he  drank,  though  it  wanted  but 
an  hour  of  dinner.  But  the  baronet  had  been  in  a  ner- 
vous and  anxious  state  for  several  days  past ;  he  had 
been  worried,  probably,  by  some  of  the  exigencies  and 
disappointments  which  are  inseparable  even  from  the 
most  sagaciously  conducted  business ;  and  he  had  more- 
over been  seriously  harassed  by  the  odd  behavior  of  his 
son  Thomas,  who,  since  the  night  of  the  Marquise's 
party,  had  not  been  behaving  like  himself.  He  had 
been  moody,  reticent  and  inactive;  had  attended  no 
cock-fights  or  rat-catchings ;  had  foregone  his  customary 
horseback  exercise,  and  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  refuse 
to  drink  more  than  half  his  usual  quantity  of  wine. 
When  his  father  addressed  him,  he  had  replied  curtly 
and  evasively ;  and  yet  Sir  Francis  had  several  times  de- 
tected his  son  in  the  act  of  watching  him  with  a  very 
intent  and  peculiar  expression.  What  was  the  matter 
with  him  ?  Had  he  contracted  a  secret  marriage  ?  or 
had  he  suffered  a  disappointment  in  love  ?  or  had  he 
been  losing  money  at  play  ?  These  questions,  which  the 
baronet  could  not,  and  his  son  evidently  would  not  an- 
swer, occasioned  the  former  a  good  deal  of  disquietude. 
But  all  this  would  scarcely  account  for  his  vivid  emotion 
at  the  receipt  of  so  commonplace  a  thing  as  an  accept- 
ance of  an  invitation.  Had  he  expected  Mr.  Grant  to 
refuse  ? 

On  the  forenoon  of  Friday,  Mr.  Grant  put  into  his 
pocket  a  leathern  wallet  containing  a  variety  of  papers, 
and  betook  himself  to  the  city.  Previous  to  starting  he 
had  a  short  colloquy  with  Marion. 

"  I  shall  not  return  until  after  you  are  all  in  bed  and 


DUST.  171 

asleep,"  he  said.  "You  must  on  no  account  sit  up  or 
keep  awake  for  me." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  inquired  Marion,  point 
blank. 

"  Something  which  will  perhaps  give  you  a  chance  to 
display  your  magnanimity,"  Mr.  Grant  answered  with  a 
smile. 

The  girl  gave  him  a  deep  and  somewhat  troubled  look. 

"I  shall  be  glad  when  there  are  no  more  mysteries," 
she  said.  "Nothing  good  comes  of  them." 

"  It  depends  in  some  measure  upon  yourself  how  soon 
this  mystery  is  dissipated,"  returned  Mr.  Grant.  "  Have 
you  no  mysteries  of  your  own  ?" 

"  Oh,  housekeeping  mysteries — how  to  boil  a  potato, 
or  starch  a  frill ;  I  shall  never  have  any  other  kind,"  an- 
swered Marion  with  a  laugh,  and  turning  away. 

"To-morrow,"  said  Mr.  Grant,  after  a  pause,  "you 
and  I  will  have  a  chat  about  mysteries,  and  perhaps  we 
may  clear  each  other  up.  Good-by,  my  dear. "  He  took 
her  hand,  and  draAving  her  a  little  toward  him,  kissed 
her  cheek.  She  looked  at  him,  reddening,  and  said : 

' '  Be  careful  of  y ourself.     Good-by. ' ' 

"Proud  and  jealous,"  said  the  old  gentleman  to  him- 
self, as  he  marched  down  the  street  to  the  corner  where 
the  coach  passed;  "but  we  shall  circumvent  that,  I 
hope.  What  is  the  use  of  my  twenty  thousand  pounds 
if  she  will  not  be  my  daughter  ?  But  there  is  common 
sense  at  the  bottom  of  Philip's  romance,  that  will  coun- 
teract and  persuade  her  stubbornness — if  it  cornes  to 
that." 

The  coach  came  along,  and  in  due  time  landed  Mr. 
Grant  in  the  city ;  and  ten  minutes  later  he  had  entered 
Merton  Fillmore's  private  office,  which  had  witnessed 
many  singular  revelations,  but  none  more  so,  perhaps, 
than  the  one  which  was  now  going  to  take  place. 

"  Good  day,  sir,"  said  the  lawyer,  rising  ceremoniously 


173  DUST. 

as  his  visitor  entered.  "  Is  your  business  likely  to  occupy 
us  long?"- 

"It  chiefly  concerns  the  drawing  up  of  my  will,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Grant.  "And  since  the  dispositions  that  I  wish 
to  make  are  somewhat  precise  and  complicated,  we  may 
as  well  put  the  limit  at  not  less  than  two  hours." 

"I  am  at  your  disposal,  then,  until  four  o'clock." 
Here  Fillmore  took  out  some  blank  sheets  of  paper, 
which  he  placed  before  him  on  the  desk.  Besting  his 
hands  upon  these,  with  the  tips  of  the  fingers  meeting 
each  other,  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  Mr.  Grant  and  said 
slowly : 

"  Before  we  begin,  I  wish  to  put  one  question  to  you. 
You  will,  of  course,  decide  whether  or  not  it  be  worth 
your  while  to  answer  it." 

"  I  am  at  your  service,"  said  the  other  courteously. 

Fillmore  paused  a  moment,  looking  down  at  his  hands. 
Then,  raising  his  head,  he  asked  abruptly,  "What  is 
your  name  ?" 

"I  had  intended  to  inform  you  on  that  point  as  soon 
as  the  occasion  required,"  answered  the  old  man  quietly. 
"  The  name  by  which  I  have  chosen  to  be  known  here 
is  not  mine.  I  am  Charles  John  Grantley.  My  father 
was  Thomas  Grantley,  of  whom  you  have  doubtless 
heard." 

Fillmore  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  stroked  his  chin. 
Presently  he  said,  "  Sir  Francis  Bendibow  spoke  to  me 
regarding  your  identity  a  few  weeks  ago ;  and,  taking  all 
the  circumstances  into  consideration,  I  own  that  I  shared 
the  surprise  he  seemed  to  feel  at  your  reappearance  in 
England." 

"I  can  understand  that,"  was  the  composed  reply; 
"  but  it  has  always  been  my  intention  to  end  my  days 
in  my  native  land." 

"It  seems  you  have  amassed  a  fortune  during  the 
interval?" 


DUST.  173 

"I  have  laid  by  some  twenty  thousand  pounds." 

"Which  you  now  propose  to  dispose  of  by  will?" 

"With  your  assistance,  sir." 

"You  are  a  man  of  the  world,  Mr.  Grantley,  and  ac- 
quainted with  the  general  rules  by  which  society  is  regu- 
lated. I  cannot  suppose  you  to  be  ignorant  that  a  person 
in  the  peculiar  position  which  you  are  understood  to 
occupy  might  find  it  difficult  to  establish  a  claim  to  this, 
or  any  other  property." 

"I  shall  not  affect  to  misapprehend  your  meaning, 
sir,"  returned  the  old  gentleman,  with  a  manner  of  grave 
kindliness  ;  "and  I  will  answer  you  with  as  much  open- 
ness as  justice  to  myself  and  others  allows.  I  left 
England  twenty  years  ago  under  a  cloud  of  disaster  and 
contumely.  I  chose  exile  in  preference  to  inquiry,  and 
the  results  which  such  an  inquiry  would  produce.  My 
reasons  for  taking  that  course  I  did  not  disclose  then, 
nor  shall  I  willingly  do  so  now.  I  do  not  apprehend  that 
I  shall  be  called  upon  to  alter  this  purpose ;  but,  should 
it  turn  out  otherwise,  I  have  the  means  to  meet  the 
emergency,  and  I  shall  know  how  to  use  them."  Here 
he  laid  his  right  hand  upon  the  leathern  pocket-book 
which  he  had  placed  upon  the  table.  "It  is  far  from 
being  my  wish,  however,"  he  continued,  "to  become  the 
occasion  of  any  disturbance  or  controversy.  I  rather 
desire  that  such  small  influence  as  I  may  still  be  able  to 
exercise  over  my  fellow  beings  may  be  in  the  direction  of 
making  some  of  them  happy." 

"Am  I  to  infer  that  you  contemplate  anything  in  the 
way  of  restitution  ?"  the  lawyer  demanded. 

"No." 

"You  are  quite  right,  of  course,  in  withholding  your 
confidence,"  rejoined  the  other,  with  a  coldness  that  was 
partly  assumed  to  veil  his  perplexity.  "  But — is  it  your 
intention  to  present  yourself  hereafter  under  your  true 
name  ?" 


174  DUST. 

"There  is  only  one  other  person  beside  yourself,  to 
whom  it  was  necessary  I  should  declare  myself— I  mean 
Sir  Francis  Bendibow ;  and  I  took  an  early  opportunity 
of  doing  that.  To  the  rest  of  the  world  I  intend  at 
present  to  be  Mr.  Grant.  The  fulfillment  of  the  bequests 
of  my  will  may  hereafter  necessitate  the  revelation  of 
who  I  really  am ;  but  I  trust  that  may  not  occur  during 
my  lifetime.  And,  even  in  the  alternative  event,  I  doubt 
not  the  revelation  could  be  so  managed  as  not  to  incom- 
mode any  one." 

"Well,  Mr.  Grantley,"  said  the  lawyer,  taking  up  a 
pen  and  turning  it  between  his  fingers,  "your  attitude 
is  unexpected  and,  so  far  as  my  information  would  lead 
me  to  judge,  unaccountable.  But  that  is  none  of  my 
affair.  I  need  only  to  put  it  to  you  whether  you  feel  so 
secure  in  that  attitude  as  to  warrant  a  belief  that  the 
directions  of  your  will  have  a  reasonable  chance  of  get- 
ting themselves  fulfilled — whether  you  feel  confident  that 
third  parties  may  not  interfere  to  thwart  your  inten- 
tions ?" 

"On  that  point  I  have  no  misgivings  whatever,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Grantley,  with  a  slight  smile.  "My  only 
apprehension  would  respect  the  principal  legatee." 

"I  will  not  attempt  to  understand  you,"  said  Fill- 
more,  smiling  also.  "If  you  please,  we  will  proceed  to 
the  particulars." 

Hereupon  the  two  entered  upon  a  prolonged  discus- 
sion, into  which  we  shall  not  be  obliged  to  follow  them ; 
since  what  is  of  import  in  it  will  appear  in  its  proper 
place.  At  a  few  minutes  after  four  o'clock  the  colloquy 
ended,  and  Mr.  Grant,  after  shaking  hands  very  cordially 
with  the  lawyer,  bade  him  farewell  and  went  down  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

WHEN  Mr.  Grant  got  to  the  door  of  the  building,  he 
found  Sir  Francis  Bendibow  awaiting  him  in  a  small  but 
stylish  turn-out  with  two  horses.  He  took  his  seat  beside 
the  baronet  on  the  box,  and  the  footman  sat  behind,  with 
his  arms  folded.  In  this  fashion  they  drove  westward. 

Sir  Francis  knew  how  to  make  himself  an  entertaining 
companion,  and  he  availed  himself  of  his  knowledge  on 
this  occasion.  He  talked  volubly  and  genially,  giving 
his  companion  the  gossip  of  the  society  of  that  day,  a 
society  which  somehow  seems  to  have  been  more  amu- 
sing and  eventful,  and  to  have  possessed  more  character 
and  variety  than  is  the  case  in  our  times.  The  footman 
with  folded  arms  had  often  listened  to  his  master's  con- 
versation sallies,  but  had  seldom  heard  him  so  agreeable 
as  on  the  present  occasion;  and  he  inferred  that  the 
gentleman,  his  companion,  who  said  very  little,  but 
whose  manner  was  courteous  and  attentive,  must  either 
be  a  particular  friend  of  master's  or  else  some  one  from 
whom  he  had  received  or  was  anticipating  a  favor. 

"We  should  see  more  of  each  other,  you  know, 
Grant,"  the  baronet  said  heartily.  "A  man  makes 
many  acquaintances  as  he  moves  on  in  the  world,  but, 
damme,  there  are  no  friends  like  the  friends  of  one's 
youth,  after  all  1  No  friend  has  been  more  often  in  my 
thoughts  during  the  last  twenty  years  than  you  have, 
and  good  reason,  too  !"  To  which,  and  to  much  more 
of  the  same  tendency,  Mr.  Grant  responded  in  terms  of 
grave  and  composed  politeness.  Altogether  it  was  a 
very  amicable  drive,  and  the  weather  and  the  roads 

were  all  that  could  be  desired. 
175 


176     ^  DUST. 

Their  route  lay  through  Richmond  and  across  the 
gray  stone  bridge  that  separates  the  town  from  the 
parish  of  Twickenham.  "When  you  ride  home  to- 
night," said  Sir  Francis,  "you'll  find  it  an  agreeable 
change  to  follow  the  Isleworth  road,  on  the  west  bank 
of  the  river ;  and  cross  by  Brentford  Bridge.  Mighty 
pretty  quiet  stretch,  and  but  a  trifle  longer  if  at  all." 
The  footman  could  have  told  exactly  how  much  further 
it  was,  but  of  course  held  his  peace,  as  he  would  have 
done  had  the  baronet  affirmed  it  to  be  two  miles  shorter. 
Still  bowling  easily  westward,  the  horses  tramped  through 
the  narrow  winding  street  of  a  sleepy  little  town,  which 
seemed  wearied  out  as  it  were  with  the  burden  of  its  his- 
toric associations,  and  drew  up  at  last  before  a  wrought- 
iron  gateway  in  a  high  brick  wall,  the  bricks  cemented 
with  green  moss  and  crowned  with  ivy.  The  gate  having 
been  promptly  thrown  open  by  the  alert  footman,  the 
horses  tramped  through  it  and  up  the  graveled  crescent 
of  a  drive  overshadowed  with  fragrant  lime  trees,  until 
their  driver  pulled  them  up  before  the  gabled  portal  of 
an  elderly  but  comfortable  and  solid-looking  edifice,  faced 
with  white  plaster,  and  dignified  by  far-projecting  eaves. 
Tossing  the  reins  to  the  man,  Sir  Francis  got  actively 
down  and  assisted  his  friend  to  alight.  They  entered  the 
house  arm-in-arm.  A  large  cool  shadowy  hall  received 
them  ;  beyond,  a  broad  staircase,  and  opening  inward  to 
the  right  of  it  a  vista  of  spacious  drawing-room,  with 
windows  giving  upon  a  verandah,  and  a  rich  lawn  at  the 
back  of  the  house. 

"Serve  dinner  at  six,  sharp  !"  said  Sir  Francis  to  the 
obeisant  butler.  "Now,  my  dear  Grant,  no  ceremony 
here,  you  know  ;  but  I  remember  your  fastidious  habits. 
If  you  want  to  wash  your  hands,  give  yourself  the  trou- 
ble to  follow  me  up-stairs,  and  I  think  you'll  find  every- 
thing arranged  to  make  you  comfortable." 

"Uncommon  civil  the  governor  is  to-day,"  remarked 


DUST.  177 

the  butler  to  the  footman,  when  the  two  gentlemen  had 
disappeared  in  the  upper  regions.  "Who  his  Mr.  Grant, 
I'd  like  ter  know  V" 

"Ha!  you  may  arsk  that,  Mr.  Tuppin,"  returned 
the  footman,  with  airs  of  superior  knowledge.  "You 
may  arsk  that,  and  no  blame  to  yer  !" 

"Well,  I  does  hax  it,"  answered  Mr.  Tuppin  brusque- 
ly ;  "not  that  I  supposes  you  can  tell  me  hanythin'  about 
it,  neither !" 

"Ha!  per-raps  not!"  retorted  the  footman,  aban- 
doning the  vagueness  of  mystery  for  the  definiteness  of 
imagination.  "Per'aps  I  didn't  'ear  'em  conversin'  as 
we  came  along,  and  the  gent  a-sayin'  as  'ow  'e'd  arf  a 
milliuin  as  he  was  dyin'  to  invest,  and  could  the  baro- 
net adwise  'im  on  the  subjick  ?  And  the  baronet  he  says, 
says  'e,  '  Why,  if  ten  per  cent,  is  any  good  to  you,  my 
dear  friend,'  says  'e,  'I  fancies  we  can  take  it  hoff  yer 
'ands  and  no  questions  arsked.'  And  the  gent  'e  said 
as  'ow  'e'd  think  about  it." 

"Oh,  that's  the  story,  his  it  ?"  said  Mr.  Tuppin,  push- 
ing up  his  eyebrows  and  turning  down  the  corners  of 
his  mouth.  "  Well,  I  thought  it  might  ha'  been  some- 
thin'  new.  But  as  fur  that,  my  good  feller,"  he  added, 
turning  away  indifferently,  "Sir  Francis  was  talkin' 
about  it  arter  dinner  no  longer  ago  nor  day  before  yes- 
terday. I  'card  'im  myself." 

To  this  assertion  the  footman  was  unable  to  frame  a 
reply ;  being  undecided  whether  to  credit  his  own  ears 
with  miraculous  inspiration,  or  to  charge  Mr.  Tuppin 
with  being  a  liar.  The  former  course  appearing  the 
more  agreeable  both  to  his  vanity  and  Ms  self-interest, 
he  ended  by  adopting  it. 

Dinner,  instead  of  being  served  in  the  dining-room, 
which  was  in  the  front  part  of  the  house,  and  com- 
manded no  pleasant  outlook,  was  laid  out  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, through  the  open  windows  of  which  the 


178  DUST. 

friends  could  let  their  eyes  wander  out  upon  the  ex- 
panse of  silken  tui'f,  and  the  verdurous  masses  of  whis- 
pering foliage.  A  sentiment  of  cultured  and  impertur- 
bable repose  was  expressed  by  this  little  region  :  not  the 
vacant  or  helpless  repose  of  wild  nature  ;  but  the  re- 
pose that  comes  of  over-ripeness,  or  of  containing  more 
than  can  be  uttered.  The  quaint  ghosts  of  past  times 
paced  the  deep  smoothness  of  the  lawn,  and  lurked  in 
the  shadows  of  the  trees. 

"  Other  parts  of  the  world  are  better,  perhaps,  to  live 
in  than  England,"  remarked  Mr.  Grant :  "  but  the  place 
to  die  in  is  here." 

"  What's  that  ?  Die  in  ?  Pooh !  time  enough  to  talk 
of  dying  twenty  years  hence,"  cried  the  genial  baronet. 

"Twenty  years  is  a  long  time  to  wait,"  replied  the 
other  meditatively.  "  The  time  to  leave  life  is  when 
you  find  it  pleasant,  but  no  longer  necessary.  My 
former  interests  are  finished.  I  should  not  care  to 
become  absorbed  in  new  ones  ;  not  in  this  world  at  all 
events." 

Here  the  servant  entered  with  the  after-dinner  wine. 

"We  can't  afford  to  lose  you  yet  awhile,  my  dear 
friend,"  exclaimed  the  baronet.  "Now  that  we  have 
you  safely  with  us  again,  we  mean  to  keep  hold  of  you. 
What  do  you  say  to  finishing  our  wine  out  yonder  on 
the  lawn  ?  Yes — Tuppin,  take  the  small  table  out,  and 
a  couple  of  chairs.  Such  weather  as  this  should  be  taken 
advantage  of." 

"And,  by  the  way,"  he  resumed,  after  the  change 
had  been  made,  and  they  had  been  left  finally  alone  in 
their  seclusion,  "  talking  about  life  in  England — where- 
abouts do  you  propose  actually  to  settle  ?  Of  course  I  as- 
sumed that  you've  no  notion  of  remaining  permanently 
in  your  present  quarters — not  even  if  you  have  designs 
on  the  widow — eh  ?  ha !  ha  I" 

The  other  rested  his  eyes  coldly  on  the  baronet  and 


DUST.  179 

replied:  "Possibly  not:  but  I  have  no  other  definite 
plans  touching  a  dwelling." 

"  Well,  if  your  coming  back  to  England  was  as  unex- 
pected to  you  as  it  was  to  us,  your  plans  might  easily 
be  a  bit  .  .  .  undigested  !" 

"As  to  that,  I  question  whether  there  was  any  mo- 
ment during  my  absence  when  I  did  not  cherish  the 
purpose  of  returning ;  and  'tis  at  least  a  year  ago  that 
the  date  of  my  departure  from  India  was  fixed.  What 
I  might  do  on  my  arrival  was,  indeed,  another  ques- 
tion." 

Sir  Francis  crossed  one  leg  over  another  and  caressed 
his  shapely  knee.  "Upon  the  whole,  you  know,"  he 
said,  "  I  rather  wonder  at  your  remaining  so  faithful  to 
us.  You  were  well  enough  placed  in  India,  I  suppose  ? 
Seems  to  me  I  would  have  stayed  there.  What  did  you 
expect  to  find  here  ?  One's  acquaintances  get  pretty 
well  used  up  in  twenty  years." 

"  Considerations  had  weight  with  me  that  might  not 
have  affected  you  in  my  place.  I  acted  according  to  my 
feeling,  as  does  every  one  who  acts  freely." 

"Ah!  I  understand:  the  Marquise — eh?  Parental 
affection  and  all  that !  Well,  does  the  lady  reciprocate  ?" 

This  was  uttered  in  a  somewhat  strained  tone,  and 
the  speaker's  countenance  wore  a  smile  that  was  anx- 
ious and  perfunctory  rather  than  spontaneous  and  ge- 
nial. But  Mr.  Grant  seemed  not  to  notice  the  alteration. 

"I  can't  say  I've  been  disappointed,"  he  replied; 
"perhaps  because  I  expected  little.  The  child  I  left  in 
your  care  has  grown  up  to  be  a  woman  of  the  world, 
wealthy  and  fashionable,  and  naturally  not  much  given 
to  sentiment.  She  has  fascination,  ambition,  and  com- 
mon sense ;  she  is  quick-witted,  independent  and  ad- 
venturous. I  saw  the  germ  of  these  traits  in  her  long 
ago;  but  I  also  saw — or  so  I  fancied — a  generous  and 
passionate  heart,  which  might  counterbalance  whatever 


180  DUST. 

was  dangerous  in  her  other  qualities.  Doubtless  'twas 
this  hope  that  influenced  my  determination  to  return  to 
England." 

uAh!  a  passionate  and  generous  heart!  .  .  .  well. 
And  may  I  enquire  whether  the  lady  meets  your  antici- 
pations in  that  particular?" 

Mr.  Grant  did  not  at  once  reply ;  but  after  awhile  he 
said  in  a  measured  tone,  his  eyes  turned  toward  the 
ground,  "With  due  allowance  for  accidents  and  circum- 
stances, I  do  not  think  my  estimate  of  Perdita  was  a 
mistaken  one." 

"  Accept  my  congratulations  then  !"  rejoined  the  baro- 
net, with  a  short  and  heavy  laugh.  "I  am  to  take  it, 
then,  that,  in  order  to  win  the  sympathy  of  this  pas- 
sionate and  generous  heart,  you  have  not  spared  the  repu- 
tation of  the  lady's  foster-father  ?" 

Grant  looked  up  quickly  and  keenly.  "I  made  no 
such  insinuation  !"  said  he. 

"  But  you  can't  deny  the  fact  ?" 

"  I'm  not  concerned  either  to  deny  or  to  admit  it." 

"Well,  well — you're  quite  right:  no  use  disputing 
about  that.  And  Fillmore — another  sympathetic  con- 
fidant, I  presume  ?" 

"  As  a  man  of  affairs,  I  found  Mr.  Fillmore  all  I  could 
wish." 

"  Exactly  !  and  who  is  to  be  next  ?  I'm  interested  to 
know  the  persons  who  are  henceforth  to  behold  me  in 
my  true  colors  !  Or  perhaps  you  intend  to  be  impartial 
in  your  favors,  and  publish  the  matter  broadcast  ?"  All 
this  was  said  with  a  kind  of  ghastly  jocularity.  "  Let 
me  hear  just  what  I'm  to  expect.  That's  only  fan- — 
eh?" 

"Doesn't  it  occur  to  you,  Frank,"  said  the  other, 
looking  fully  at  him,  while  the  color  reddened  in  his 
face,  "  that  what  you  are  saying  is  offensive  ?  Has  my 
past  conduct  given  you  grounds  to  adopt  this  tone  to- 


DUST.  181 

ward  me  ?  You  try  my  temper,  sir  I  and  I  ...  I 
shall  not,  however,  allow  myself  to  be  angry."  By  a 
manifest  effort  he,  in  fact,  controlled  his  rising  heat,  and 
constrained  himself  to  an  austere  coldness. 

The  baronet  seemed  not  to  wish  to  provoke  his  guest 
any  further.  Either  he  was  afraid  of  him — and  there 
was  a  stern  fire  at  the  heart  of  the  uniformly  serene  old 
gentleman  which  did  not  encourage  wanton  experiment 
— or  else  there  were  reasons  why  he  desired  rather  to 
conciliate  than  to  irritate  him..  "I  expressed  myself 
clumsily,  Charles,"  he  said.  "  Ton  my  honor  I  meant  no 
insult.  But  a  man  wants  to  know  how  he  stands — where 
he's  to  look  for  enemies  and  where  for  friends.  Now 
you  and  I  are  not  going  to  rake  up  old  matters — eh  ? 
For  good  or  bad,  the  past  is  done  with.  The  wrong 
can't  be  righted  now ;  you  can't  right  it,  nor  can  I ;  if 
I  could,  I  would  in  a  moment.  But  time  has  arranged 
things  after  its  own  fashion.  I  did  what  I  could  for  the 
wife  and  child,  didn't  I  ?  I  stuck  to  Perdita  till  she  got 
a  good  husband,  and  then  'twas  she  left  me,  not  I  her. 
You  .  .  .  well — you  made  your  way  in  the  world, 
and  if  all  were  known,  perhaps  you're  in  a  better  posi- 
tion to-day  than  if  all  this  had  never  happened.  But 
your  turning  up  again  has  put  a  new  face  on  the  afiair 
—eh?" 

"  In  what  manner  ?" 

"Why,  in  this  manner — but  you  mustn't  mind  my 
speaking  out :  we  know  each  other  well  enough  not  to 
stickle  at  formalities — eh  ?" 

"Say  en,  sir." 

"I  understand  human  nature  as  well  as  most  men; 
and  I  don't  expect  too  much  of  it — not  even  of  you,  my 
dear  Charles.  I  can  put  myself  in  your  place,  and  look 
at  things  in  your  way.  Quite  right  and  natural  you 
should  wish  Perdita  to  feel  toward  you  as  a  daughter  to 
her  father.  And  as  to  Fillmore,  of  course  it  might  be 


182  DUST. 

necessary,  in  doing  business  with  him,  to  enter  into  cer- 
tain explanations :  for  Merton  has  his  crotchets,  and  is 
not  the  man  to  go  into  anything  he  doesn't,  in  a  certain 
way,  approve  of.  But,  allowing  all  that,  I  have  to  con- 
sider my  own  position  also.  I'm  compromised;  and 
taking  my  age  and  yours  into  consideration  (not  to  men- 
tion other  things),  it  makes  me  doocidly  uneasy.  I  can 
believe  you  mean  me  no  harm  ;  but  others  might  be  less 
considerate.  I'm  not  half  sure  of  Fillmore  ;  and  as  for 
Perdita  .  .  .  who  trusts  a  woman  at  the  best  of  times  ?" 

"Let  me  point  out  to  you,  Bendibow,  that  you  are 
proceeding  upon  an  assumption  of  your  own :  namely, 
that  my  daughter  and  Mr.  Fillmore  know  your  secret." 

"Well,"  said  the  other,  with  a  husky  laugh,  "appear- 
ances look  that  way,  and  what's  more,  you've  not  de- 
nied it." 

"I  have  neither  denied  nor  affirmed  it,"  repeated 
Grant. 

"Quite  right  of  you  not  to  commit  yourself.  But, 
passing  that  over,  if  you  really  mean  me  no  mischief, 
why  the  devil  can't  you  give  me  tangible  proof  and 
pledge  of  it  ?" 

"Bendibow,  have  you  had  any  occasion  to  suspect 
me  of  unfriendliness  since  my  return  here  ?" 

"H'm  !  nothing  definite,  perhaps.  But  it  would  have 
seemed  more  natural  if  you  had  banked  with  us  instead 
of  Childs,  for  instance." 

"That  is  a  matter  of  financial  judgment.  You  can- 
not expect  me,  who  know  what  your  business  practices 
are,  to  have  the  same  confidence  in  your  financial  or- 
thodoxy that  I  have  in  Childs'  ?  But  I  did  leave  a  thou- 
sand in  your  hands,  precisely  in  order  to  avoid  remark." 

"  And  if  'twere  a  hundred  thousand,  you  might  have 
it  back,  with  interest,  to-morrow  !"  exclaimed  Sir  Fran- 
cis with  vehemence.  "But  that's  not  our  topic.  You 
have  something  in  your  possession — you  know  what  I 


DUST.  183 

mean — which  you  can't  object  to  making  over  to  me,  if 
we  are  friends." 

"Do  you  refer  to  the  letter  you  wrote  to  me  at  the 
time  " — 

"  Never  mind  the  details !  Yes,  that's  the  thing — that 
and  the  other  papers.  Many  a  wakeful  night  they've 
given  me,  since  then  !" 

"I  shall  never  surrender  them  to  you,"  said  Grant, 
with  decision.  "Your  only  use  for  them  would  be  to 
destroy  them.  They  are  my  protection.  My  personal 
security,  as  well  as  my  right  to  my  property,  might  de- 
pend on  them.  Were  you  a  far  more  trustworthy  man  than 
you  have  ever  shown  yourself  to  me,  Frank  Bendibow,  I 
would  not  place  myself  so  helplessly  at  your  mercy." 

"  You  won't  let  me  have  'em,  then  ?" 

"No.  I  am  immovable  on  that  point.  Remember, 
that  the  possession  of  those  papers  was  the  condition  of 
my  action  when  .  .  .  twenty  years  since.  "What  influ- 
enced me  then  has  at  least  as  much  weight  now.  You 
must  be  content  with  some  other  pledge  than  that.  An 
honest  man  should  ask  no  other  pledge  than  an  honest 
man's  word." 

"Look  here,  Grantley,"  said  the  baronet,  leaning  for- 
ward and  speaking  in  a  husky  and  uneven  voice:  "I 
swear  to  you  by  all  that's  sacred,  if  you'll  give  me  the 
papers,  I'll  never  take  advantage  of  you.  I'll  down 
on  my  knees  and  take  what  oath  you  please — I'll  do  it 
this  moment  if  you  say  so.  Think,  man  I  If  anything 
should  happen  to  you,  and  those  things  were  found  and 
read,  what  would  become  of  me  .  .  .  but  it's  not  that 
— 'tis  not  myself  I  care  about.  If  the  worst  comes  to 
the  worst,  I  should  know  how  to  deal  with  myself.  But 
it's  that  boy  of  mine — poor  little  fellow  I  I  love  him 
better  than  my  own  soul,  or  anything  else.  Sooner  than 
he  should  ever  think  ill  of  his  father,  I'd  let  you  shoot 
me  dead  here  where  I  sit.  All  I  live  for  is  to  make  him 


184  DUST. 

happy,  and  leave  him  an  honorable  name  and  fair  pros- 
pects. And  if,  after  all  I've  hoped  and  done,  he  were 
to  get  wind  of  this — !  I  can't  endure  to  think  of  it!" 
cried  the  baronet,  his  voice  breaking. 

"You're  the  same  Frank  Bendibow  as  in  the  old 
days,"  said  the  other  sadly.  "I  cared  a  great  deal  for 
you  then,  and  I  fear  I'm  not  quite  cured  of  it  yet.  The 
worst  is,  you  make  yourself  believe  your  own  decep- 
tions. I  won't  do  what  you  ask ;  it  would  be  to  risk  in- 
terests and  obligations  which  needn't  be  mentioned  now. 
But  perhaps  we  might  make  some  compromise.  The 
papers  might  be  handed  to  some  third  person — to  Mr. 
Fillmore,  for  example" — 

"  Fillmore  be  damned!"  cried  the  baronet  violently, 
striking  the  table  with  his  fist,  while  his  face  flushed 
dark  red.  "I'll  have  no  compromises  !  I'll  trust  neither 
you  nor  Fillmore!  How  do  I  know  what  plot  you've 
been  hatching  against  me  this  very  day  ?  "Will  you  give 
me  the  papers,  or  not  ?  Yes  or  no  ?" 

"I  can  only  repeat  that  I  will  not," said  the  baronet's 
guest,  gravely. 

"Then  ....  But,  oh,  for  God's  sake,  Charley,"  said 
Bendibow,  abruptly  changing  his  tone  from  menace  to 
entreaty,  "  think  of  my  Tom  !  You're  a  father  yourself, 
you" — 

"Let's  have  an  end  of  this,"  interrupted  the  other, 
between  compassion  and  scorn.  "You  needn't  fear  for 
the  boy,  nor  for  yourself  either.  The  papers  can  never 
be  made  public,  except  by  my  voluntary  act :  and  it  de- 
pends solely  on  you  whether  that  ever  becomes  neces- 
sary. I  always  carry  them  upon  my  person,  in  a  sealed 
cover,  addressed  to  a  friend  who,  on  receiving  them,  and 
after  taking  certain  precautions,  would  probably  destroy 
them.  In  case  of  my  dying  suddenly,  therefore,  you 
would  suffer  no  detriment.  That's  all  I  have  to  say  :  and 
now,  if  you  please,  we'll  drop  the  subject." 


DUST.  185 

"You  alwaj's  carry  them  about  you?"  repeated  the 
baronet. 

"I  have  them  on  me  now.  Isn't  it  getting  a  little 
damp  out  here  ?  My  Indian  experience  makes  me  cau- 
tious." 

"  'Tis  a  cloudy  night :  there'll  be  no  dew,"  said  the 
baronet  absently.  "  What  did  you  say  V  Yes,  certainly, 
we'll  go  into  the  house.  I  have  some  prints  I  want  you 
to  look  at.  Wait  a  moment !  I  say,  Charley — it's  all 
right — it's  all  right.  I  didn't  mean  anything.  Fact  is, 
my  head  is  not  always  quite  right,  I  fancy.  I  get  car- 
ried away  .  .  .  damme,  I  ask  your  pardon — shake  hands 
with  me,  Charley !" 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  and  grasped  the  other's, 
which  he  shook  hard  and  mechanically,  then  letting  it 
go  abruptly. 

"Life's  a  queer  business  !"  he  continued  with  a  laugh. 
"We  get  pushed  into  doing  things  we  wouldn't  have 
believed  ourselves  capable  of :  'tis  all  circumstances  .  .  . 
fate !  As  far  as  I  can  see,  I'm  no  worse  nor  better  than 
others.  Come  in — come  into  the  study.  The  evening 
hasn't  begun  yet." 

"I  must  turn  homewards.     'Twill  be  a  dark  night." 

"Pooh!  not  a  bit  of  it.  Can't  let  you  oft1  before  ten 
or  eleven.  And  your  horse  won't  be  ready  yet.  Come 
now — else  I'll  think  you  bear  me  a  grudge.  You've  had 
it  your  own  way  so  far — give  me  my  turn  a  bit  now — 
eh  ?" 

"I'll  stay  a  little  longer,  if  you  wish,"  said  the  guest 
courteously. 

"That's  right !  You  shan't  go  off  to  call  me  a  brute 
and  a  bully.  Why,  we  used  to  hit  it  off  pretty  well  to- 
gether in  the  old  times  !  Let's  have  'em  over  again,  for 
this  one  evening — eh?  just  as  if  nothing  had  happened." 

And  herewith  Sir  Francis  cast  aside  his  dejection  and 
preoccupation,  and  became  once  more  vivacious  and 


186  DUST. 

agreeable.  His  guest  had  again  occasion  to  admire  the 
man's  really  great  social  and  mental  powers.  Two  or 
three  hours  passed  rapidly.  Then,  all  at  once,  Sir 
Francis  complained  of  severe  twinges  in  his  right  leg 
and  foot. 

"  That  damned  gout  of  mine  1"  he  exclaimed  ruefully. 
"Ah!  ah!  all  up  with  me  for  the  next  day  or  two! 
Ah  ! — may  I  trouble  you  to  ring  that  bell  ?  Tuppin — 
here,  Tuppin  !  I've  got  another  attack.  See  that  every- 
thing in  my  room  is  ready.  Whew !  "Well,  my  dear 
Grant,  sorry  our  evening  should  end  so.  Better  luck 
next  time." 

"Shall  I  carry  a  message  to  your  physician?"  asked 
Grant,  who  had  risen  to  take  his  leave. 

"No — oh,  no — I  have  everything  here  ;  shall  have  to 
fight  it  out — no  hastening  the  thing — ah  !  Good-by,  then, 
till  next  meeting.  Tuppin — ah  1 — Mr.  Grant's  horse  ; 
have  it  brought  round  to  the  door." 

"The  'orse  is  quite  ready,  Sir  Francis,  if  you  please." 

"Good-by,  then,  Grant,  good-by.  The  lower  road, 
you  know,  through  Isleworth ;  the  lower  road,  eh  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  I  remember.  Farewell,  and  a  speedy  re- 
covery to  you !"  And  with  a  kindly  look  at  his  suffer- 
ing host,  Mr.  Grant  left  the  room  under  the  respectful 
guidance  of  Tuppin,  and  having  bestowed  a  gratuity 
upon  that  worthy  butler,  he  mounted  his  horse  and  rode 
away  into  the  summer  darkness. 


CHAPTEE  XYIH. 

IT  now  becomes  our  duty  to  follow  for  a  time  the  for- 
tunes of  Mr.  Thomas  Bendibow.  This  honest  and  pros- 
perous young  gentleman,  had  he  been  as  familiar  with  the 
text  of  Shakspeare  as  he  was  with  those  of  some  other 
dramatic  authors,  might  have  compared  his  plight  to 
that  of  Prince  Hamlet,  when  the  noble  Dane  was  in  a 
state  of  collapse  at  the  scene  of  domestic  revolution 
which  followed  so  hard  upon  his  father's  decease. 
Though  never  exceptionally  dutiful  in  his  filial  relations, 
he  had  a  genuine  fondness  for  the  author  of  his  being, 
and  allowed  no  liberties  to  be  taken  with  his  name  and 
character  by  any  one  beside  himself.  But  since  the  re- 
ception at  the  house  of  the  Marquise  Desmoines,  and 
the  conversation  that  he  had  overheard  there,  his  men- 
tal attitude  had  undergone  a  dolorous  transformation. 
Whatever  his  other  failings,  Tom  had  always  possessed 
the  honesty  and  fearless  candor  that  belonged  to  his 
idea  of  a  gentleman,  and  had  never  thought  of  ques- 
tioning his  father's  proficiency  in  the  same  virtues. 
Even  now  he  could  not  bring  himself  fully  to  adopt  the 
inferences  that  obtruded  themselves  upon  him.  Further 
information  might  modify  the  aspect  of  the  case.  Nev- 
ertheless, an  uncertainty  as  to  whether  the  modification 
would  be  for  the  better  or  for  the  worse,  hindered  the 
young  gentleman  from  putting  it  to  the  test.  Moreover, 
he  recoiled,  when  it  came  to  the  point,  from  directly 
questioning  his  father  on  a  subject  involving  the  latter's 
honor.  The  degradation  of  such  a  situation  would  be 
mutual.  Therefore  poor  Tom  nursed  his  despondency 
in  secret ;  when  all  at  once  it  occurred  to  him,  as  an 
137 


188  DUST. 

illumination  from  on  high,  to  seek  sympathy  and  per- 
chance enlightenment  from  the  Marquise.  He  did  not 
give  this  inspiration  time  to  cool,  but  acted  upon  it  at 
once.  With  his  ostensible  purpose  in  visiting  her  may 
have  mingled  another,  not  the  less  dear  because  not 
openly  avowed  ;  and  which  we,  as  well  as  he,  may  leave 
to  its  own  development.  So,  at  about  the  hour  when 
Merton  Fillmore  and  Mr.  Grant  were  having  their  in- 
terview in  the  lawyer's  office,  Thomas  Bendibow,  Es- 
quire, caused  himself  to  be  announced  at  Madame  Des- 
moines'. 

Perdita  was  in  a  delightful  humor.  She  had,  indeed, 
a  singularly  even  and  cheerful  temper,  the  result  of  an 
habitually  good  digestion  and  a  general  sense  of  the 
adequacy  of  her  means  to  her  ends.  Yet  she,  too,  had  her 
moments  of  especial  loveliness,  and  this  was  one  of  them. 
She  was  sitting  in  a  chair  by  the  window,  with  her  hair 
drawn  up  on  the  top  of  her  head,  and  arranged  in  flat 
curls  on  her  forehead.  She  wore  a  thin,  black  silk  gown, 
charmingly  disposed  about  the  throat  and  shoulders  ;  a 
book  lay  open  on  her  lap,  and  in  her  white  hands  she 
idly  held  a  piece  of  embroidery,  on  which  she  might  be 
supposed  to  be  at  work,  though  in  reality  she  had 
taken  hardly  a  dozen  stitches  in  it  that  afternoon.  She 
was  languorous  and  dreamy. 

"Oh,  Tom  !"  she  said,  stretching  her  arms  above  her 
head,  and  parting  her  smiling  lips  in  a  pretty  yawn. 
"How  pleasant  to  see  you.  Poor  boy,  my  pleasure  is 
your  pain." 

"Eh?  Why  do  you  say  that?"  he  demanded,  stop- 
ping midway  in  the  ceremonious  obeisance  he  was 
making. 

"Your  face  told  me.  So  pale  and  sorrowful!  Poor 
child,  what  is  it  ?" 

"I  am  not  a  child,  Madame  Desmoines,"  said  Tom 
with  dignity. 


DUST.  189 

"You  are  not  civil,  sir." 

"  Not  civil — to  you  !"  - 

"It  is  not  civil  to  remind  a  lady  of  her  age.  I  like  to 
remember  the  time  when  you  and  I  were  children  to- 
gether, Tom,  and  to  forget  the  years  since  then." 

"Oh,  to  be  sure!  I  didn't  look  at  it  in  that  way; 
and  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me,"  said  the  youth  repent- 
antly. "I  wouldn't  hurt  your  feelings  for  the  world, 
Perdita ;  upon  my  soul,  now,  I  wouldn't !  But  about 
my  being  a  child,  you  know — in  a  certain  way  I  shouldn't 
mind — for  your  sake,  I  mean,  so  that  you  needn't  im- 
agine you're  any  older.  But  in  another  way — as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact — of  course  I  can't  help  being  a  man,  and 
feeling  it.  And  in  that  way  I'd  like  you  to  feel  it,  too ; 
because  what  I  feel  for  you  isn't  at  all  what  a  child 
would  feel ;  and  ...  I  hope  you  understand  me  I" 

"There's  a  great  deal  of  feeling  in  what  you  say," 
responded  the  Marquise,  with  innocent  gravity,  "but 
I'm  not  sure  I  know  what  the  feeling  is  about.  Is  it 
about  yourself?" 

"  I  don't  believe  there's  a  fellow  alive  who  could  feel 
anything  about  himself  when  he's  with  you :  that  is, 
except  to  feel  that  he  felt  .  .  .  you  might  feel  ..." 

"  There  !  see  how  mysterious  you  are.  I'm  afraid 
you're  chaffing  me  !"  put  in  the  lady,  delivering  Tom  a 
glance  that  might  have  upset  an  ascetic  of  seventy. 

"  Oh,  this  is  too  bad,  and  I  can't  stand  it !"  cried  Mr. 
Bendibow  with  a  groan.  Then  he  burst  out :  "  'Tis 
you  I  feel  about,  Perdita !  and  I  don't  care  who  knows 
it !  I've  met  lots  of  women  in  my  life,  and — all  that 
sort  of  thing  ;  but  never  a  woman  like  you,  and  I  don't 
believe  there  is  another  like  you  in  the  whole  world. 
And  if  you'd  only  .  .  .  look  here !  Can't  you  feel  that 
way  for  me  ?  Oh,  do  !" 

"Oh I  Tom,  is  it  really  about  me?"  cried  the  lovely 
Marquise,  in  the  tenderest  warble  of  a  voice.  She  folded 


190  DUST. 

her  hands  in  her  lap  and  gazed  at  him  with  hesitating 
wonder,  as  if,  in  the  first  place,  she  had  that  instant 
realized  the  fact  that  such  a  person  as  herself  existed ; 
and  secondly,  was  struggling  to  comprehend  so  incredi- 
ble a  circumstance  as  that  another  person  should  exist 
who  could  regard  her  otherwise  than  with  indifference. 
Miranda  upon  Setebos  would  have  seemed  a  sophisti- 
cated woman  of  the  world  beside  the  Marquise  Des- 
moines  at  that  moment. 

Having  allowed  this  shaft  time  to  rankle,  she  pro- 
ceeded. "But  why  do  you  ask  me  whether  I  feel  for 
you  ?  You  know  I  love  you,  Tom.  Have  I  ever  dis- 
guised it?" 

"You  love  me?  O  Perdital"  cried  the  gentleman, 
fairly  breaking  into  a  giggle  of  unanticipated  bliss. 

"Why,  who  could  help  loving  you ?" 

Tom  suddenly  became  grave,  with  a  momentary  mis- 
giving. "But  you  understand  I  mean  marrying,"  said 
he ;  "husband  and  wife,  you  know  I" 

She  replied  with  a  smile  of  radiant  sympathy,  "Ah I 
well,  now  I  do  understand  you.  You  mean  to  marry, 
and  you  are  come  to  tell  me  all  about  it !  Sit  down  here 
beside  me  and  begin.  Is  she  worthy  of  you,  Tom  ?  But 
first,  tell  me  her  name  I" 

"Her  name?"  faltered  Mr.  Bendibow.  "Why,  it's 
— you!" 

"See  how  stupid  I  am!"  exclaimed  the  Marquise, 
laughing  with  an  air  of  perplexity.  "I  meant  to  ask 
you  what  is  the  name  of  the  lady  you  intend  to  marry?" 

"Don't  I  tell  you  'tis  you?  Who  else,  since  we  both 
love  " — 

The  Marquise  threw  up  her  hand ;  her  eyes  flashed : 
there  was  an  instant's  dead  silence.  Then  she  said  in  a 
low  voice  of  mingled  amazement  and  indignation,  "You, 
Thomas  Bendibow,  marry  me !"  And  she  added,  with 
a  tragic  tone  and  gesture,  "You  trifle  with  me,  sir  I" 


DUST.  191 

"'Pon  my  soul,  Perdita,"  asseverated  the  wretched 
Thomas,  quaking  at  he  knew  not  what,  "I  never  was 
further  from  trifling  in  my  life.  I  mean  an  honest  thing, 
and  I  mean  it  with  all  my  heart.  And  I  can't  think 
what  you're  so  angry  " — 

"You  have  shocked  me,  Tom — and  grieved  me!  I 
can't  tell  you  what  you've  made  me  suffer.  You — my 
brother — to  betray  your  sister's  confidence  and  twist  her 
words  like  that!  I  shall  never  trust  another  man  as 
long  as  I  live — no,  never  !" 

"But  I  never  thought  .  .  .  and  besides,  you're  not 
my  sister  at  all  I"  stammered  Tom,  from  pale  becoming 
very  red.  "  You  know  that  my  father  is  no  more  yours 
than — than  I  am  ;  nor  my  mother  neither !  But  if  you 
don't  want  to  have  me,  you  should  put  it  on  some  fairer 
ground  than  that.  I  offered  you  the  most  a  man  can 
give  a  woman  ;  and  I'm  in  right  dead  earnest,  too  I" 

The  Marquise,  having  played  out  her  little  comedy  to 
her  satisfaction,  was  now  ready  to  deal  with  her  victim 
on  a  less  fanciful  basis. 

"Sit  down  here,  Tom,"  she  said,  "and  look  at  me, 
my  dear.  Yes,  I  am  a  beautiful  woman ;  and  I  am 
wise :  at  least  ten  times  as  wise  as  you  will  ever  be. 
And  I've  seen  the  world — the  great  world;  and  .  .  . 
I'm  a  widow  !  All  the  finest  gentlemen  in  Europe  have 
made  love  to  me.  I  knew  you'd  fancy  you'd  lost  your 
heart  to  me  too ;  and  for  both  our  sakes  I  wished  the 
affair  over  as  soon  as  possible.  You  could  no  more  be 
my  husband,  my  dear,  than  you  could  wear  the  moon 
on  your  watch-chain.  My  husband — if  I  ever  have  an- 
other— will  be  a  man  wiser,  stronger,  and  handsomer 
than  I  am :  a  man  who  can  rule  me  with  a  word  or  a 
look :  a  king  of  men — and  that's  more  than  a  king  of 
nations.  How  near  do  you  come  to  being  such  a  man 
as  that  ?  You  and  I  might  go  to  church  together,  and 
a  priest  might  pronounce  the  marriage  service  over  us ; 


192  DUST. 

but  it  would  take  more  than  a  priest  and  a  marriage 
service,  Tom,  to  make  you  and  me  man  and  wife  !  The 
man  who  can  be  my  husband  will  have  no  need  of  forms 
of  law  and  religion  to  keep  me  safe  ;  though  we'd  have 
those,  too,"  she  added  with  an  odd  smile,  "because  it's 
proper!" 

Tom  pulled  up  his  stock  ruefully,  and  strove  to  main- 
tain as  manly  a  bearing  as  possible.  "I  know  I'm  no- 
thing very  great,"  he  said;  "but  loving  a  woman  like 
you  makes  a  fellow  ever  so  much  better,  and  more  of  a 
fellow  than  he  was  before.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that, 
maybe  I  wouldn't  have  dared  say  anything.  But  if  you 
won't  have  me,  Perdita,  I  suppose  ....  I  shall  have 
...  to  do  without  you!  And  I  wish  I'd  never  been 
born !  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  think  I'd  better  go !" 

"No  ;  you  must  stay  until  you  are  happy,"  said  Per- 
dita, firmly,  laying  her  hand  on  the  youth's  arm  as  he 
was  about  to  rise.  At  her  touch  he  subsided,  helpless. 

"There's  something  you'll  enjoy  better  than  being 
my  husband,"  continued  the  Marquise,  looking  at  him 
kindly,  "and  you'll  have  no  rivals  !  I  need  a  brother, 
Tom,  much  more,  perhaps,  than  a  husband.  I  want  a 
friend ;  no  woman  can  be  my  friend,  and  no  man,  un- 
less you  will.  Don't  you  think  it  might  be  pleasant  to 
be  my  friend  ?  "Would  you  rather  be  that  or — nothing  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  want  if  I  can't  have  you.  I'm 
awfully  miserable.  Look  here — don't  marry  any  other 
fellow !  I  could  stand  anything  but  that !  Well,  I'll 
see  if  I  can  be  your  friend.  Better  break  my  heart  with 
you  than  away  from  you,  I  suppose.  Only  I  won't  have 
you  call  me  your  brother — that  would  be  too  desperate  ! 
Look  here,  do  you  know  who  your  father  is  ?" 

"I  know  who  he  was." 

"  Well,  he  is  still.  He's  back  here.  Don't  you  know  ? 
You  talked  with  him  long  enough  the  other  day.  Didn't 
he  tell  you?" 


DUST.  193 

Perdita  lifted  her  head  high  and  looked  at  him  in- 
tently. "  Who  do  you  mean  ?"  she  demanded. 

"Why,  old  Grant,  to  be  sure!  Grantley  is  his  real 
name,  and  he  is  your  father." 

Perdita  looked  aside,  with  a  thoughtful  expression, 
and  said,  "He  didn't  tell  me." 

"Well,  he  is." 

"Who  told  you  so?" 

"  I  heard  my  father  and  Fillmore  saying  it  in  the  din- 
ing-room. That's  what's  been  plaguing  me  ever  since. 
I  hoped  you'd  know  about  it.  Because,  if  he's  the  thief 
and  scoundrel,  my  father  said,  why  isn't  he  arrested  ? 
Instead  of  that,  father  acts  as  if  he  was  afraid  of  him. 
'Tis  as  if  father  was  the  scoundrel  and  Grant  the  honest 
man.  I'd  ask  father  myself,  only  it  wouldn't  be  decent." 

"  I  see  I"  murmured  Perdita,  meditating.  "  But  why 
did  he  not  tell  me  ?  It  may  be  an  imposture.  But  he 
would  have  no  motive  for  that.  Besides,  he  couldn't 
impose  on  Sir  Francis.  Yes,  it  does  seem  strange.  Let 
me  think." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  her  eyes  downcast,  fold- 
ing and  unfolding  the  work  in  her  lap.  She  had  evi- 
dently forgotten  all  about  Tom,  That  unfortunate  youth 
sat  staring  at  her  with  burning  eyes.  How  little  he 
cared  about  his  father,  or  anything  else,  in  comparison 
with  her !  And  she  would  never  be  his.  Tom  sup- 
pressed a  groan  and  felt  the  hollowness  of  life.  He 
longed  to  do  something  extraordinary,  frantic,  heroic. 
Not  to  forget  himself  in  dissipation — he  loved  her  too 
truly  for  that,  but  to  rise  to  the  level  of  such  a  man  as 
might  worthily  possess  her.  Since  that  happiness  could 
never  be  his,  to  deserve  it  would  be  the  next  best  thing. 
And,  perhaps,  after  all,  no  achievement  could  be  so  ar- 
duous and  heroic  as  to  be  her  friend — her  true  and  un- 
selfish friend.  Some  day  she  should  esteem  him  at  his 
true  value  and  thank  him.  She  should  be  made  to  feel 


194  DUST. 

that  he  was  not  a  child,  and  that  he  was  something 
more  than  a  brother.  Hereupon  Tom  felt  an  aching  in 
his  throat,  and  two  tears  trickled  down  his  face.  He 
surreptitiously  wiped  them  away. 

"Will  you  do  something  for  me,  my  dear?"  asked 
Perdita,  looking  up. 

Tom  nodded,  not  wishing  just  then  to  trust  his  voice. 

"This  thing  will  have  to  be  cleared  up  some  day," 
she  continued,  "  and  it  might  as  well  be  now.  You  can 
help  me  already,  you  see.  I  can  do  nothing  without  you. 
You  shall  be  my  friend  and  my  confidant.  If  that  man 
is  my  father  I  must  see  him  again  and  find  out  .... 
whatever  he  has  to  tell  me." 

"  What  shall  you  do  when  you  find  out  ?" 

"  Then  we  can  consult  together,  since  we  are  both  in- 
terested." 

"If  there  should  be  anything  wrong  about  my 
father"— 

"We  will  arrange  to  keep  it  secret.  Mr.  Grant — or 
whoever  he  is — cannot  profit  by  any  public  revelation, 
and  I'm  sure  I  wish  Sir  Francis  nothing  but  good.  I 
should  have  preferred  not  to  have  the  matter  come  up 
at  all,  and  I  told  Mr.  Grant  as  much  ;  but  I  must  know 
about  it,  since  others  do,  and  it  must  be  settled  defi- 
nitely." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?" 

"Go  to  Mr.  Grant  and  tell  him  ....  or  stop! 
I'll  write  a  note  for  you  to  take  to  him.  You'll  find 
him,  I  suppose,  at  the  Lockharts'  house  in  Hammer- 
smith. Give  the  letter  only  into  his  own  hands.  Will 
you  do  that  for  me  ?" 

"I  wish  I  could  die  for  you,  Perdita,"  was  his  reply, 
with  a  lack  of  outward  emphasis  that  made  it  impres- 
sive. 

She  glanced  sidelong  at  him  and  drew  in  her  breath 
with  a  half  sigh.  He  was  an  honest  fellow  and  he  loved 


DUST.  195 

her  truly.  Perhaps  she  was  sorry,  for  a  moment,  that 
she  could  not  love  him.  For  it  is  the  pleasure  of  fate  to 
turn  the  affairs  of  lovers  topsy-turvey  ;  and  even  so 
redoubtable  a  Marquise  as  Perdita  might  one  day  find 
herself  discomfited  in  somewhat  the  same  way  that 
Tom  was  now.  However,  fate  is  fate  and  cannot  be  de- 
feated. 

She  followed  up  her  sigh  with  a  smile.  "I  love  my- 
self too  well,"  she  said,  uto  send  you  on  any  deadly 
errand.  Shall  I  write  the  note  now  ?" 

u  Yes,  if  you'll  be  so  kind.  My  mare  needs  exercise 
and  I  shall  like  to  ride  over  to  Hammersmith  this  even- 
ing. 'Tis  not  six  o'clock  yet." 

So  Perdita  sat  down  and  wrote  her  letter  and  gave  it 
to  Tom,  and  also  gave  him  her  hand  to  kiss.  But  he 
said,  "Not  yet,  if  you  please;  I  couldn't  kiss  it  the 
right  way." 

Perdita  said  nothing.  But  after  her  rejected  suitor 
had  departed  with  her  letter  stowed  away  in  the  breast 
of  his  coat,  she  looked  in  her  glass  and  murmured,  with 
a  queer  little  laugh  : 

"  Is  that  a  blush  I  see  ?" 

Tom  marched  home  with  a  solemn  and  dignified  air, 
and,  having  caused  his  mare  to  be  saddled,  he  mounted 
her  and  set  out  toward  Hammersmith,  on  the  errand 
which,  neither  to  him  nor  to  Perdita,  seemed  to  involve 
any  deadly  peril 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

As  Tom  Bendibow  left  London  and  approached  Ken- 
sington, the  afternoon  was  warm  and  still,  and  slight 
puffs  of  dust  were  beaten  upward  by  each  impact  of 
his  horse's  hoofs  upon  the  dry  road.  The  foliage  of  the 
trees,  now  past  its  first  fresh  greenness,  had  darkened 
considerably  in  hue,  and  was  moreover  dulled  by  the 
fine  dust  that  had  settled  upon  it  during  the  preceding 
week  of  rainless  weather.  Pedestrians  sought  the  grassy 
sides  of  the  road,  and  fancied  that  the  milestones  were 
further  apart  from  each  other  than  they  ought  to  be ; 
and,  in  the  fields  to  the  right  and  left,  the  few  laborers 
who  were  still  at  work  moved  with  a  lazy  slowness,  and 
frequently  paused  to  straighten  their  backs  and  pass 
their  brown  forearms  across  their  brows.  Toward  the 
north  and  west  the  pale  blue  of  the  sky  was  obscured 
by  a  semi-transparent  film  of  a  brownish  tint,  which  as- 
cended to  meet  the  declining  sun,  and  bade  fair  to  over- 
power it  ere  its  time.  It  was  a  day  of  vague,  nervous 
discomfort,  such  as  precedes  a  thunderstorm,  though 
there  were  no  indications  that  a  storm  was  brewing.  On 
such  a  day  neither  work  nor  indolence  is  altogether  com- 
fortable ;  but  the  mind  involuntarily  loiters  and  turns 
this  way  and  that,  unready  to  apply  itself  to  anything, 
yet  restless  with  a  feeling  that  some  undefined  event  is 
going  to  occur. 

Mr.  Bendibow 's  mind  did  not  lack  subjects  with  which 
it  might  have  occupied  itself;  nevertheless,  no  special 
mental  activity  was  indicated  by  his  features.  He  rode 
for  the  most  part  with  his  head  bent  down,  and  a  gene- 
ral appearance  of  lassitude  and  dejection.  Once  in  a 
196 


DUST.  197 

while  ho  would  cast  his  glance  forward  to  take  note  of 
the  way,  or  would  speak  a  word  to  his  horse ;  but 
thought  seemed  to  be  at  a  standstill  within  him  ;  he  was 
in  the  state  of  partial  torpor  which,  in  some  natures, 
follows  vivid  and  unusual  emotion.  He  paid  no  heed  to 
the  meteorological  phenomena,  and  if  he  felt  their  effects 
at  all,  probably  assigned  them  a  purely  subjective  origin. 
The  sunshine  of  his  existence  was  obscured  before  its 
time,  and  the  night  was  approaching.  He  looked  for- 
ward to  no  storm,  with  its  stress  and  peril  and  after- 
refreshment  ;  but  he  was  ill  at  ease  and  without  hope ; 
his  path  was  arid  and  dusty,  and  the  little  journey  of 
his  life  would  soon  be  without  object  or  direction. 

For  the  moment,  however,  he  had  his  mission  and  his 
message,  and  he  must  derive  what  enjoyment  he  might 
therefrom.  He  passed  listlessly  through  Kensington, 
taking  small  note  of  the  familiar  buildings  and  other 
objects  which  met  his  sight.  Had  he  not  beheld  them  a 
thousand  times  before,  and  would  he  not  see  them  as 
often  again  ?  A  little  while  more  and  he  began  to  draw 
near  Hammersmith  town,  and  now  he  sat  more  erect  in 
his  saddle  and  drew  his  hat  down  upon  his  brows,  with 
the  feeling  that  he  would  soon  be  at  his  destination. 
Passing  the  "Plough  and  Harrow,"  the  ostler,  who  was 
crossing  the  road  with  his  clinking  pail,  touched  his 
forelock  and  grinned  deferentially. 

"Good  day,  sir — yer  servant,  sir!  Tiresome  weather 
to-day;  a  man  can't  'ardly  bear  his  flesh.  Bound  for 
Twick'nam,  sir?" 

Tom  shook  his  head. 

"  Oh  I  beg  parding,  sir.  Seem'  Sir  Francis  drive  by 
with  the  pair  just  now,  I  says  to  myself" — 

"What's  that?" 

"  The  bar 'net,  sir — well,  'twas  mebbe  an  hour  since  ; 
and  another  party  along  with  him.  So,  I  says  to  my- 
self"— 


198  DUST. 

"Go  to  the  dooce  I"  ejaculated  Mr.  Bendibow,  putting 
his  horse  in  motion. 

"  Thankee,  sir ;  dry  weather,  this,  sir  ;  'ope  yer  honor 

'11  keep  yer  'ealth Thankee,  sir  I"  he 

added,  deftly  catching  the  coin  which  Tom  tossed  to 
him  and  spitting  upon  it  before  thrusting  it  in  his 
pocket ;  "  and  if  ever  yer  honor  wants  to  be  put  in  the 
way  of  as  pretty  a  piece  of 'orseflesh  .  .  ."  But  by  this 
time  Tom  was  out  of  earshot  ;'so  the  ostler  winked  at  the 
chambermaid,  who  was  looking  out  of  the  inn  window, 
and  resumed  his  way  across  the  street,  whistling.  Tom, 
meanwhile,  after  riding  quarter  of  a  mile  further,  turned 
off  to  the  left,  and  presently  drew  rein  in  front  of  Mrs. 
Lockhart's  gate.  Marion  was  fastening  some  ivy  to  the 
side  of  the  door ;  she  turned  round  on  hearing  the 
horse's  hoofs ;  and  Mr.  Bendibow,  having  lifted  his 
hat,  descended  from  the  saddle  and  hitched  his  bridle 
to  the  gate-post.  Marion  remained  standing  where  she 
was. 

"Good  evening,  Miss  Lockhart,"  said  Tom,  advan- 
cing up  the  path  ;  "  don't  know  if  you  remember  me — 
Mr.  Bendibow.  Hope  I  see  you  in  good  health." 

"Thank  you,  sir.  Have  you  ridden  from  London? 
You  choose  dusty  weather." 

Tom  was  aware  of  a  lack  of  cordiality  in  the  young 
lady's  manner,  and,  being  in  a  somewhat  reckless  mood, 
he  answered  bluntly,  "As  for  that,  I'm  not  out  for  my 
own  pleasure,  nor  on  my  own  business  neither ;  and  I 
ain't  going  to  keep  you  long  waiting.  I've  a  letter  here 
for  Mr.  Grant — that's  the  name  the  gentleman  goes  by, 
I  believe  ;  is  he  at  home  ?" 

"  I  think  Mr.  Grant  is  in  the  city ;  at  all  events,  he  is 
not  here." 

"•  I've  a  letter  for  him  from  Perdita — the  Marquise 
Desmoines,  that's  to  say,"  said  Tom,  producing  the 
letter  and  twisting  it  about  in  his  fingers,  as  if  it  were  a 


DUST.  199 

talisman  to  cause  the  appearance  of  the  person  to  whom 
it  was  addressed. 

"  If  you  '11  give  it  to  me  Mr.  Grant  shall  have  it  when 
he  returns,"  said  Marion. 

"  That  won't  do — much  obleeged  to  you  all  the  same ; 
I'm  to  deliver  it  into  his  own  hands.  You  don't  know 
where  I  might  find  him,  do  you  ?"  inquired  Tom,  feeling 
disconsolate  at  this  miscarriage  of  his  only  remaining 
opportunity  of  usefulness  in  the  world. 

"He'll  be  back  some  time  to-night;  won't  you  wait 
for  him  here  ?"  said  Marion,  softening  a  little  from  her 
first  frigidity  ;  mother  will  be  glad  to  see  you,  and  ..." 

"Mr.  Grant  won't  be  back  till  toward  midnight,  but 
I  can  tell  you  where  you  '11  find  him,"  interposed  a  voice 
from  the  air  above  them — the  voice  of  Mr.  Philip  Lan- 
caster, who  was  leaning  out  of  his  window  on  the  floor 
above.  "How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Bendibow  ?  He's  dining 
with  your  father  at  his  place  in  Twickenham." 

"Dining  with  my  father!  The  dooce  he  is!"  ex- 
claimed Tom,  now  disguising  the  surprise  which  this  in- 
formation afforded  him.  "I  take  it  you're  quite  sure 
of  what  you  say,  Mr. — er — Lancaster,"  he  added,  grow- 
ing quite  red  as  he  stared  up  at  that  gentleman. 

"  Mr.  Grant  seemed  quite  sure  of  it  when  he  left  me 
to-day,"  Philip  replied,  smiling;  "but  'the  best-laid 
plans  o'  mice  and  men  gang  aft  agley,'  you  know." 

"What's  that?  Well,  it's  beyond  me,  the  whole  of 
it,  that's  all  I  know.  Dining  with  Sir  Francis,  is  he  ? 
Well,  stifle  me  if  I'm  going  up  there  I"  And  Tom 
struck  his  foot  moodily  with  his  whip  and  stared  at  the 
fluttering  ribbon  on  Marion's  bosom. 

"  You  won't  come  in,  then  ?"  said  Marion,  who  began 
to  have  a  suspicion  that  Mr.  Bendibow  had  been  taking 
a  little  too  much  wine  after  his  dinner ;  wherein  she  did 
him  great  injustice,  inasmuch  as  he  had  drunk  scarce  a 
pint  of  spirits  in  the  last  three  days.  Her  tone  so  plainly 


200  DUST. 

indicated  a  readiness  to  abbreviate  the  interview,  that 
poor  Tom  felt  it  all  the  way  through  his  perplexity  and 
unhappiness. 

"No,  I'm  going,  Miss  Lockhart,"  he  said,  with  a 
rueful  bow.  "  I  know  I  ain't  on  my  good  manners 
this  evening,  but  I  can't  help  it.  If  you  only  knew  what 
a  lot  of  things  there  is  troubling  me,  you'd  understand 
how  'tis  with  me.  Beg  your  pardon  for  disturbing  you, 
and  wish  you  good  evening." 

"  Good  evening,"  said  Marion,  kindly  ;  and  unexpect- 
edly she  gave  him  her  hand.  He  took  it  and  pressed  it 
hard,  looking  in  her  face.  "  Thank  you,"  he  said.  "And 
I  like  you — by  George,  I  do !  and  I  wish  there  were 
more  women  like  you  in  the  world  to  care  something 
about  me."  He  dropped  her  hand  and  turned  on  his 
heel,  for  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  he  did  not 
wish  Marion  to  see  them.  He  reached  the  gate  and 
mounted  his  horse,  and  from  that  elevation  saluted 
Marion  once  more ;  but  he  bestowed  merely  a  stare 
upon  Philip,  and  so  rode  away. 

"I  like  that  little  fellow;  I  believe  he  has  a  good 
heart,"  remarked  Marion,  addressing  herself  to  her  ivy, 
but  speaking  to  Philip. 

"  I'm  afraid  he  doesn't  like  me,"  Philip  rejoined. 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "  I  don't  won- 
der at  it." 

"Why?"  he  demanded. 

"  Oh,  I  can  put  two  and  tw^>  together,"  answered  she, 
nodding  her  head  with  a  kind  of  ominous  sagacity  ;  and 
she  would  give  no  further  explanation. 

When  Tom  found  himself  upon  the  high  road  again, 
he  stood  for  some  time  in  doubt  as  to  which  way  he 
should  proceed.  Obedience  to  Perdita  required  that  he 
should  ride  on  without  delay  to  Twickenham ;  but  so 
strongly  had  his  feelings  been  revolted  by  the  picture 
presented  him  of  his  father  hob-nobbing  amicably  with 


DUST.  201 

the  man  who  ought  to  have  heen,  at  hest,  his  enemy, 
that  he  could  not  prevail  upon  himself  to  make  a  third 
at  the  party.  The  mystery  surrounding  Sir  Francis' 
relations  with  Grant  had  in  fact  entered,  in  Tom's  opin- 
ion, upon  so  acute  a  stage  of  impropriety,  that  his  own 
official  recognition  of  them  would  necessitate  instant 
open  war  and  rebellion,  and  this  crisis  he  was  naturally 
willing  to  postpone.  On  the  other  hand,  no  real  harm 
could  come  from  waiting  till  next  morning  before  deliv- 
ering Perdita's  letter,  inasmuch  as  Mr.  Grant  could  cer- 
tainly not  act  upon  it  at  that  hour  of  the  night.  After 
a  minute's  irresolution,  therefore,  Tom  turned  his  horse 
toward  London,  in  an  exceedingly  bad  humor. 

But  when  he  came  in  sight  of  the  "Plough  and  Har- 
row" his  troubled  spirit  conceived  a  sort  of  compromise. 
He  would  spend  the  night  here  instead  of  returning  to 
London.  He  could  then  discharge  his  commission  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning,  and  report  to  Perdita  by 
breakfast  time.  The  difference  was  not  great,  but  such 
as  it  was,  it  was  for  the  better.  So  into  the  court-yard 
of  the  inn  he  rode,  with  a  curvet  and  a  prance,  and  a 
despotic  shout  for  the  ostler. 

Now  the  ostler  of  the  "Plough  and  Harrow"  was  an 
old  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Thomas  Bendibow's,  and  under 
his  guidance  and  protection  Tom  had  enjoyed  the  rap- 
tures of  many  a  cock-fight  and  rat-catching,  and  had 
attended  many  an  august  exhibition  of  the  manly  art  of 
self-defense,  and  had  betted  with  varying  fortune  (ac- 
cording to  the  ostler's  convenience)  on  many  a  private 
trial  between  horses  whose  jockeys  were  not  bigotedly 
set  on  winning  upon  their  merits.  Latterly,  it  is  true, 
the  son  of  the  baronet  had  made  some  efforts  to  walk 
more  circumspectly  than  in  the  first  flush  of  his  hot 
youth,  and,  as  a  first  step  in  this  reformed  career,  he 
had  abated  the  frequency  of  his  consultations  with  Jim 
the  ostler ;  and  beyond  an  occasional  chance  word  or 


202  DUST. 

two,  and  the  exhibition  on  Tom's  part  of  an  eleemosy- 
nary half-crown,  the  friendship  had  outwardly  fallen 
into  disrepair. 

But  there  are  seasons  when  the  cribbed  and  confined 
soul  demands  release  and  expansion,  and  yearns  to  im- 
merse itself  once  again  in  the  sweet  old  streams  of  habit 
and  association  that  lead  downward,  and  afford  a  man 
opportunity  to  convince  himself  that  some  shreds  of  un- 
regenerate  human  nature  still  adhere  to  him.  Such  a 
season  had  now  come  for  Tom  Bendibow,  and  he  was 
resolved  to  let  nature  and  the  ostler  have  their  way. 
Accordingly  when  the  latter,  having  seen  to  his  patron's 
horse,  and  skillfully  tested  the  condition  of  his  temper, 
began  to  refer  in  guarded  terms  to  the  existence  of  the 
"loveliest  pair  of  bantam  chickens  as  hever  mortal  heyes 
did  see,"  Tom  responded  at  once  to  the  familiar  hint, 
and  no  long  time  elapsed  ere  he  found  himself  in  the 
midst  of  surroundings  which  were  more  agreeable  than 
exclusive.  Into  the  details  of  these  proceedings  it  will 
not,  however,  be  necessary  for  us  to  follow  him.  It  is 
enough  to  note  that  several  hours  passed  away,  during 
which  the  heir  of  the  Bendibows  subjected  himself  to 
various  forms  of  excitement,  including  that  derived 
from  a  peculiarly  seductive  species  of  punch ;  and  that 
finally,  in  obedience  to  a  sudden  impulse,  which  seemed 
whimsical  enough,  but  which  was  no  doubt  directly 
communicated  to  him  by  the  finger  of  fate,  he  sprang  to 
his  feet  and  loudly  demanded  that  his  horse  be  brought 
out  and  saddled  forthwith,  for  he  would  ride  to  Twick- 
enham. 

"Never  you  go  for  to  think  of  such  a  thing,  Mr.  Ben- 
dibow," remonstrated  Jim  the  ostler,  with  much  earn- 
estness. "Why,  if  the  night  be'nt  as  dark  as  Terribus, 
I'll  heat  my  nob  ;  and  footpads  as  thick  betwixt  'ere 
and  there  as  leaves  in  Wallumbrogia  1" 

"  Have  out  my  horse  in  two  trnnutes,  you  rascal,  or 


DUST.  203 

I'll  footpad  you  I     Look  alive,  now,  and  don't  let  me 
hear  any  more  confounded  gabble,  d'ye  hear  ?" 

"It  do  go  ag'in  my  conscience,  Mr.  Bendibow,"  mur- 
mured the  ostler  sadly,  "it  do  indeed!  Howsumever, 
your  word  is  law  to  me,  sir,  now  as  hevermore  ;  so  'ere 
goes  for  it  1"  and  he  arose  and  departed  stablewards. 
And  on  the  whole,  he  had  n<)  reason  to  be  dissatisfied 
with  his  night's  work,  as  the  plumpness  of  his  breeches' 
pocket  testified. 

Mr.  Bendibow 's  horse  had  spent  the  time  more  pro- 
fitably than  his  master ;  yet  he  scarcely  showed  more 
disposition  to  be  off  than  did  the  latter.  There  was  a 
vaulting  into  the  saddle,  a  clatter  of  hoofs,  and  a  soli- 
tary lantern  swinging  in  the  hand  of  Jim  the  ostler,  as 
he  turned  and  made  his  way  slowly  back  to  his  quar- 
ters, wondering  "what  hever  could  'ave  got  into  that  • 
boy  to  be  hoff  so  sudden." 

The  boy  himself  would  have  found  it  difficult  to  an- 
swer that  question.  A  moment  before  the  resolve  had 
come  to  him,  he  had  anticipated  it  no  more  than  his 
horse  did.  But,  once  he  had  said  to  himself  that  he 
would  ride  out  and  meet  Mr.  Grant  on  the  way  back 
from  Twickenham,  the  minutes  had  seemed  hours  until 
he  was  on  his  way.  There  was  no  reason  in  the  thing  ; 
but  many  momentous  human  actions  have  little  to  do 
with  reason  ;  and  besides,  Tom  was  not  at  this  time  in 
a  condition  of  mind  or  body  in  which  the  dictates  of 
reason  are  productive  of  much  effect.  He  felt  that  he 
must  go,  and  nothing  should  stand  in  his  way. 

When  the  ostler  had  affirmed  that  it  was  dark,  he  had 
said  no  more  than  the  truth.  The  brown  film  which 
had  begun  to  creep  over  the  heavens  before  sunset,  had 
increased  and  thickened,  until  it  pervaded  the  heavens 
like  a  pall  of  smoke,  shatting  out  the  stars  and  blacken- 
ing the  landscape.  It  was  neither  cloud  nor  fog,  but 
seemed  rather  a  new  quality  in  the  air,  depriving  it  of 


204  DUST. 

its  transparency.  Such  mysterious  darkenings  have  been 
not  infrequent  in  the  history  of  the  English  climate, 
and  are  called  by  various  names  and  assigned  to  various 
causes,  without  being  thereby  greatly  elucidated.  Be 
the  shadow  what  and  why  it  might,  Tom  rode  into  the 
midst  of  it  and  put  his  horse  to  a  gallop,  though  it  was 
scarcely  possible  to  see  one  side  of  the  road  from  the 
other.  He  felt  no  anxiety  about  losing  his  way,  any 
more  than  if  he  had  been  a  planet  with  a  foreordained 
and  inevitable  orbit.  The  silence  through  which  he  rode 
was  as  complete  as  the  darkness ;  he  seemed  to  be  the 
only  living  and  moving  thing  in  the  world.  But  the 
flurry  of  the  dissipation  he  had  been  through,  and  the 
preoccupation  of  his  purpose,  made  him  feel  so  much 
alive  that  he  felt  no  sense  of  loneliness. 

It  had  been  his  intention  to  take  the  usual  route 
through  Kew  and  Kichmond  ;  but  at  Brentford  Bridge 
he  mistook  his  way,  and  crossing  the  river  there,  he  was 
soon  plunging  through  the  obscurity  that  overhung  the 
Isleworth  side  of  the  river.  If  he  perceived  his  mistake, 
it  did  not  disconcert  him ;  all  roads  must  lead  to  the 
Rome  whither  he  was  bound.  Sometimes  the  leaves  of 
low-lying  branches  brushed  his  face ;  sometimes  his 
horse's  hoofs  resounded  over  the  hollowness  of  a  little 
bridge  ;  once  a  bird,  startled  from  its  sleep  in  a  wayside 
thicket,  uttered  a  penetrating  note  before  replacing  its 
head  beneath  its  wing.  By-and-by  the  horse  stumbled 
at  some  inequality  of  the  road  and  nearly  lost  its  foot- 
ing. Tom  reined  him  in  sharply,  and  in  the  momentary 
pause  and  stillness  that  ensued,  he  fancied  he  distin- 
guished a  faint,  intermittent  noise  along  the  road  before 
him.  He  put  his  horse  to  a  walk,  pressed  his  hand  over 
his  breast,  to  make  sure  that  the  letter  was  safe  in  its 
place,  and  peered  through  the  darkness  ahead  for  the 
first  glimpse  of  the  approaching  horseman,  whom  he 
made  sure  was  near.  But  he  was  almost  within  reach 


DUST.  205 

of  him  before  he  was  aware,  and  had  turf  been  under 
foot  instead  of  stony  road,  the  two  might  have  passed 
each  other  without  knowing  it. 

"Hullo!"  cried  Tom. 

"Hullo,  there  I"  responded  a  voice,  sharp  but  firm; 
"who  are  you?" 

"  I'm  Tom  Bendibow.  You're  Charles  Grantley,  ain't 
you  ?" 

"You have  good  eyes,  sir,"  answered  the  other,  bring- 
ing his  horse  close  alongside  of  Tom's,  and  bending  over 
to  look  him  in  the  face. 

"It's  ears  and  instinct  with  me  to-night,"  was  Tom's 
reply.  "  That's  all  right,  then.  I  came  out  to  meet  you. 
I  have  a  letter  for  you  from  your  daughter." 

"  Do  you  ride  on,  Mr.  Bendibow,  or  shall  you  return 
with  me  ?"  inquired  the  other,  after  a  pause. 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  said  Tom,  and  turning  his  horse, 
the  two  rode  onward  together  side  by  side. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

PHILIP  LANCASTER  had  gone  to  bed  early  this  night ; 
he  sat  up  all  the  night  before,  trying  to  compel  un- 
willing rhymes  to  agree  with  one  another,  and  was  now 
resolved  to  discover  what  poetic  virtue  lay  in  sleep. 
But  sleep  proved  as  unaccommodating  as  rhyme.  He 
could  not  discharge  his  brain  of  the  crowd  of  importu- 
nate and  unfruitful  thoughts  sufficiently  to  attain  the  calm 
necessary  for  repose.  In  fact,  he  had  more  than  loose 
ends  of  poetry  to  disturb  him  ;  his  relations  with  Ma- 
rion had  not  been  in  tune  since  the  mishap  in  Richmond 
Park,  and  she  had,  up  to  this  time,  avoided  explanations 
with  a  feminine  ingenuity  that  was  not  to  be  out- 
manoeuvred. He  understood,  of  course,  that  a  lady 
who  has  allowed  herself  to  betray  special  regard  for  a 
man  may  feel  offended  by  the  discovery  that  the  man 
has  had  intimate  relations  with  another  lady  ;  but,  as 
between  himself  and  Marion,  matters  had  not  gone  so 
far  as  an  explicit  declaration,  on  her  side  at  all  events  ; 
and  it  was  therefore  peculiarly  difficult  to  accomplish  a 
reconciliation.  Not  less  difficult  was  it,  apparently,  to 
begin  over  again  at  the  beginning,  and  persuade  her  to 
love  him  on  a  new  basis,  as  it  were.  Her  position  was 
this — that  she  would  not  yield  as  long  as  any  ambiguity 
remained  touching  the  past  relations  of  himself  and 
Perdita ;  and  that  her  pride  or  perversity  would  not 
suffer  her  to  let  that  ambiguity  be  cleared  up.  Possibly, 
moreover,  Philip  may  have  felt  that,  even  were  the 
opportunity  given,  the  ambiguity  in  question  might  not 
be  easily  removed.  In  these  circumstances  his  most 
206 


DUST.  207 

prudent  course,  as  a  man  of  the  world,  would  have  been 
to  renounce  Marion  altogether.  She  was  not,  indeed, 
from  any  worldly  point  of  view,  a  desirable  match. 
More  than  this  she  was  chargeable  with  certain  faults 
of  temper  and  temperament — faults  which  she  herself 
was  at  no  pains  to  disguise.  She  was  not  even  beauti- 
ful in  the  conventional  sense :  Philip  had  seen  many 
women  far  more  generally  attractive.  Finally,  he  could 
not  so  much  as  be  certain  that  she  had  ever  positively 
loved  him ;  her  regard  for  him  may  have  been  no  more  than 
a  fancy,  which  no  longer  swayed  her  .  .  .  But,  when 
all  was  said,  Philip  knew  that  there  was  something 
about  Marion — something  rare,  tender  and  noble — which 
he  had  never  found  elsewhere,  and  which  he  would 
never  find  save  in  her.  And  that  he  had  found  this  and 
recognized  it,  was  to  him  reason  for  believing  that  Ma- 
rion must  also  have  perceived  something  worthy  of  love 
in  him.  Their  hands,  whose  clasp  had  been  severed 
once,  would  yet  find  one  another  again.  Nevertheless, 
in  more  despondent  moods,  Philip  would  remind  him- 
self that  love  often  ended  in  loss,  and  that  we  never 
reach  the  happiness  we  had  imagined.  It  was  into  such 
a  mood  that  he  had  fallen  to-night. 

At  one  time,  as  he  lay  on  his  bed,  encompassed  by 
darkness  on  which  his  weary  mind  could  paint  no  cheer- 
ful image,  he  thought  he  heard  light  noises  in  the  house> 
as  if  some  one  were  still  stirring.  Had  Mr.  Grant  re- 
turned home  ?  No  ;  his  firm  and  precise  step,  .ascend- 
ing the  stair,  would  have  been  unmistakable.  It  could 
not  be  Mrs.  Lockhart,  either ;  she  was  of  a  placid  con- 
stitution, and  reposed  peacefully  and  long.  Presuma- 
bly, therefore,  the  author  of  the  sounds  was  Marion, 
who  was  quite  as  apt  to  be  awake  at  night  as  in  the 
daytime,  and  who  might  have  gone  down  stairs  to  get  a 
book.  A  door  down  stairs  seemed  to  open  and  shut 
softly,  and  a  draft  of  air  came  up  the  staircase  and 


208  DUST. 

tied  the  latch  of  Philip's  room.  Could  Marion  have 
gone  out  ?  Philip  was  half  inclined  to  get  up  and  inves- 
tigate. But  the  house  was  now  quite  still ;  and  by-and- 
hy,  as  he  became  more  drowsy,  he  began  to  think  that 
his  imagination  had  probably  played  him  a  trick.  There 
were  always  noises  in  old  houses,  at  night,  that  made 
themselves.  Philip  was  falling  asleep. 

But  all  at  once  he  found  himself  wide  awake,  and  sit- 
ting up  in  bed.  Had  he  dreamed  it,  or  was  there  really 
a  knock  and  a  voice  at  his  door — a  voice  that  went  fur- 
ther into  his  heart  than  any  other  ?  There  again — 

"Philip  Lancaster!" 

He  was  on  his  feet  in  a  moment.  "Yes,  Marion. 
What  is  it  ?" 

"  I  want  your  help.     Get  ready  and  come  quickly." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  speaking  low  as  she  had  done :  and 
in  a  few  minutes  he  had  dressed  himself  and  opened  the 
door.  She  was  standing  there  with  bonnet  and  cloak. 

"  "What  has  happened  ?"  he  asked  in  a  whisper. 

"  Have  you  your  pistol  V    "We  may  need  it." 

"It  is  here,"  he  said,  stepping  back  to  the  wardrobe 
and  taking  the  weapon  from  a  drawer.  At  the  same 
time  he  nerved  himself  as  a  man  of  courage  who  is 
called  upon  to  face  an  unknown  danger.  For  there  was 
something  in  Marion's  manner  and  in  the  silent  influ- 
ence emanating  from  her  presence  that  impressed  him 
more  than  any  words  could  have  done  with  a  convic- 
tion of  the  nearness  of  peril,  and  of  intense  purpose  on 
her  part  to  meet  and  avert  it.  For  a  moment  the  sudden- 
ness of  the  summons  and  its  mysterious  import  had 
sent  the  blood  tremulously  to  Philip's  heart.  But  as  he 
crossed  the  threshold  of  his  room  Marion  put  out  her 
hand  and  touched  and  clasped  his  own.  Her  touch  was 
warm  and  firm,  and  immediately  a  great  surge  of  energy 
and  strength  went  through  Philip's  body,  making  him 
feel  doubly  himself  and  ready  to  face  and  conquer  all 


DUST.  209 

the  evil  and  wickedness  of  the  world.  The  spiritual 
sympathy  between  Marion  and  himself,  which  had  been 
in  abeyance,  was  re-awakened  by  that  touch  and  ren- 
dered deeper  and  more  powerful  than  before.  Their 
will  and  thought  were  in  accord,  vitalizing  and  confirm- 
ing each  other.  And  in  the  midst  of  his  suspense  and 
of  the  hardening  of  his  nerves  to  confront  an  external 
demand  he  was  conscious  inwardly  of  a  great  softening 
and  exaltation  of  his  spirit,  which,  however,  enhanced 
his  external  firmness  instead  of  detracting  from  it.  It 
was  the  secret  might  of  love,  which  enters  into  all 
faculties  of  the  mind  and  heart,  purifying  and  enlarg- 
ing them.  Love  is  life,  and  is  capable  of  imparting 
force  to  the  sternest  as  well  as  to  the  tenderest  thoughts 
and  deeds. 

Marion  now  led  the  way  down  stairs,  and  Philip  fol- 
lowed her,  treading  lightly  and  wondering  at  what 
moment  his  strength  and  valor  would  be  called  upon. 
Marion  opened  the  outer  door,  and  when  it  closed  behind 
them  the  strange  blackness  of  the  night  pressed  upon 
their  eyes  like  a  material  substance.  At  the  gate,  how- 
ever, appeared  a  small  light,  seemingly  proceeding  from 
a  lantern,  but  it  had  very  little  power  to  disperse  its 
rays.  Nevertheless,  Philip  was  able  dimly  to  perceive 
a  large  white  object  outside  the  gate,  which,  by  the  aid 
of  mother-wit,  he  contrived  to  identify  as  a  horse.  And 
the  lantern  in  Marion's  hand  presently  revealed  that 
the  horse  was  attached  to  a  wagon.  She  hung  the  lan- 
tern on  the  side  of  the  wagon  and  loosed  the  horse's  rein. 

"Get  in  after  me,"  she  said,  "and  then  I'll  tell  you 
which  way  to  drive." 

"  Well  ?"  said  Philip,  when  he  had  taken  his  place. 

"When  we  get  to  the  highway  keep  to  the  right  and 
cross  the  bridge.  After  that  I'll  tell  you  more." 

"How  did  the  horse  and  wagon  come  here?"  Philip 
inquired. 


210  DUST. 

"  I  got  them  just  now  from  Jebson,  the  baker.  He  is 
an  obliging  man,  and  I  knew  he  would  let  me  have  them 
without  asking  what  I  wanted  them  for." 

"  Then  'twas  you  I  heard  go  out  awhile  ago  ?" 

"Yes.  I've  been  feeling  it  coming  all  the  afternoon. 
At  last  I  could  bear  it  no  longer.  If  it  had  been  any- 
thing else  I  would  have  done  nothing.  But  to  risk 
his  life,  merely  for  fear  of  being  mistaken,  was  too 
much." 

"  Whose  life,  Marion  ?" 

She  made  no  answer  at  first,  but,  when  he  turned  to- 
ward her  and  sought  to  read  her  face  in  the  darkness, 
she  said  reluctantly : 

"Mr.  Grant's." 

"His  life  in  danger?"  Philip  exclaimed,  greatly  sur- 
prised. "  How  do  you  know  ?" 

Again  the  girl  was  silent.  But  after  a  minute  she 
said:  "You  remember  Tom  Bendibpw's  being  here 
this  afternoon  .  .  .  You  told  him  Mr.  Grant  was  at 
Twickenham.  He  was  coming  home  late.  The  road 
isn't  safe  on  a  night  like  this,  and  he  carried  no  arms." 

"  Oh !  then  all  you  fear  is  that  he  may  be  attacked  by 
footpads  ?"  said  Philip,  feeling  relieved.  He  had  appre- 
hended something  more  definite. 

"  I  fear  he  will  be  attacked,"  was  her  reply. 

"But,  in  that  case,"  rejoined  Philip,  after  a  few  mo- 
ments' reflection,  "we  ought  to  turn  to  the  left.  The 
road  from  Twickenham  lies  through  Kichmond." 

""We  should  not  find  him  there,"  said  Marion.  "He 
will  come  through  Isle  worth." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  so  ?" 

"No.  I  didn't  know  that  he  was  going  to  Twicken- 
ham until  you  said  so." 

"  Then  why  should  you  .  .  .  The  Isleworth  road  is 
at  least  a  mile  longer." 

"We  shall  find  him  there,"  she  repeated,  in  a  low 


DUST.  211 

voice.  And  presently  she  added,  with  a  manifest  effort, 
"I  will  tell  you — something.  You  may  as  well  know." 

"You  may  trust  me,"  said  Philip,  strangely  moved. 
He  could  not  conceive  what  secret  there  could  be,  con- 
necting her  with  Grant,  and  indicating  danger  to  the 
latter ;  and  the  thought  that  she  should  be  involved  in 
so  sinister  a  mystery  filled  him  with  a  tender  poignancy 
of  solicitude. 

"  You  may  not  think  it  much — it  is  something  about 
myself,"  she  said,  partly  turning  away  her  head  as  she 
spoke.  "I've  never  said  anything  about  it  to  any  one  ; 
mother  would  not  understand,  and  father — he  would 
have  understood,  perhaps,  but  it  would  have  troubled 
him.  Indeed,  I  don't  understand  it  myself — I  only 
know  it  happens." 

"It's  something  that  keeps  happening,  then?"  de- 
manded Philip,  more  than  ever  perplexed. 

As  Marion  was  about  to  reply,  the  left  side  of  the 
wagon  lurched  downwards,  the  horse  having,  in  the 
darkness,  taken  them  over  the  side  of  the  road.  Philip 
pulled  his  right  rein  violently,  and  it  gave  way,  Mr. 
Jebson's  harness  being  old  and  out  of  repair.  Philip 
jumped  down  to  investigate  the  damage  by  the  aid  of 
the  lantern. 

"If  I  can  find  a  bit  of  string  I  can  mend  it,"  he  re- 
ported to  Marion. 

"I'll  give  you  my  shoe-strings,"  she  said,  stooping  to 
unfasten  them.  "  They  are  of  leather  and  will  hold. 
But  be  quick,  Philip,  or  we  shall  be  too  late  I" 

There  was  such  urgency  in  her  tone,  that  had  Philip 
needed  any  stimulus,  it  would  have  been  amply  provi- 
ded. He  repaired  the  break  with  as  much  despatch  as 
was  consistent  with  security  and  then  resumed  his  seat 
beside  Marion. 

•"  I  fear  we  shall  be  too  late,"  she  repeated  ;  "  we  should 
have  started  earlier.  It's  my  fault ;  I  waited  too  long." 


212  DUST. 

"Are  you  so  certain" — began  Philip;  but  she  inter- 
rupted him. 

"Do  you  remember  the  time  Mr.  Grant  came  home 
before,  when  they  tried  to  shoot  him  and  he  fell  from 
his  horse  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  you  went  out  and  met  him." 

"  Yes,  because  I  knew  he  was  coming ;  when  we  were 
standing  there  by  the  open  window,  and  the  flash  of 
lightning  came,  I  knew  he  was  hurt.  I  would  have 
gone  then,  only  I  tried  to  think  it  was  my  fancy  ;  I  was 
afraid  to  find  I  was  mistaken.  And  when  I  think  of  it 
in  one  way — as  other  people  would — it  always  seems  as 
if  it  could  not  be  true — until  it  happens.  It  has  been  so 
ever  since  I  was  a  little  girl." 

"  Oh,  a  presentiment !"  murmured  Philip,  beginning 
to  see  light. 

"The  name  makes  no  difference,"  returned  Marion, 
seemiug  to  shiver  a  little.  "The  day  my  father  was 
killed,  I  saw  him.  I  saw  him,  with  the  wound  in  his 
breast.  I  said  to  myself,  if  that  turned  out  to  be  true, 
I  should  know  always  afterward  that  I  must  believe. 
When  you  came  and  told  how  you  found  him,  you  only 
told  what  I  had  seen.  1  could  have  corrected  you,  if 
you  had  made  a  mistake." 

"  You  saw  him  !"  echoed  Philip. 

"  I  saw  him — something  in  me  saw  him  ;  just  as  I 
saw  Mr.  Grant  this  evening.  But  it  wasn't  that  he 
came  to  me — that  he  appeared  before  me  like  a  ghost ; 
but  I  was  where  he  was,  and  saw  the  place  as  well  as 
him.  It  is  at  the  bend  of  the  road,  not  far  from  the 
little  brook  that  runs  into  the  river." 

"I  have  heard  of  such  a  power,  but  I  never  knew 
what  to  think  of  it,"  Philip  said.  "  But,  Marion,  if  this 
peril  to  Mr.  Grant  has  not  happened  yet,  you  must  have 
seen  not  merely  what  was  beyond  your  sight,  but  what 
was  in  the  future.  How  could  that  be  ?" 


DUST.  213 

"I  don't  know  ;  it's  no  use  trying  to  know.  It  can't 
be  reasoned  about,  unless  you  can  tell  what  time  and 
space  are.  When  such  things  happen  to  me,  there 
seems  to  be  no  future  and  no  past ;  it  is  all  the  same — 
all  one  Now.  And  no  good  ever  comes  of  my  seeing ; 
the  things  come  to  pass,  and  I  cannot  help  it.  It  has 
been  a  curse  to  me  :  but  if  we  could  only  save  Mr.  Grant, 
I  would  thank  God !" 

"We  shall  soon  know  about  that,"  said  Philip;  "as 
near  as  I  can  make  out  in  this  blackness,  we  must  be 
pretty  near  the  place  you  spoke  of,  by  this  time." 

Marion  made  no  reply,  save  by  a  slight  movement,  as 
if  she  were  drawing  herself  together,  and  they  drove  on 
in  silence.  Their  conversation  had  been  carried  on  in 
low  tones,  but  with  deep  and  tremulous  emphasis  on 
Marion's  part ;  she  was  aroused  and  moved  in  a  way 
that  Philip  had  never  seen  before ;  the  activity  of  the 
singular  power  which  she  believed  herself  to  possess  had 
caused  the  veil  which  usually  obscured  her  character  to 
roll  back  ;  and  Philip  was  conscious  of  the 'immediate 
contact,  as  it  were,  of  a  nature  warm,  deep,  passionate, 
and  intensely  feminine.  The  heavy  darkness  and  silence 
of  night  that  enveloped  him  and  her  was  made,  in  a  sense, 
luminous  by  this  revelation,  and  the  anticipation  of 
the  adventure  which  lay  so  short  a  distance  before  them 
overcame  the  intellectual  coldness  which  was  the  vice 
of  his  character,  and  kindled  the  latent  energies  of  his 
soul.  How  incongruous  sounded  the  regular  and  me- 
thodical footfall  of  the  old  white  horse,  duskily  visible 
in  the  gloom  as  he  plodded  between  the  shafts. 

A  few  minutes  passed  thus  ;  and  then  a  hard,  abrupt 
noise  rang  out,  ending  flatly,  without  an  echo.  The 
distance  from  which  it  came  seemed  not  more  than  a 
hundred  yards.  The  horse  threw  up  his  head  and  partly 
halted,  but  immediately  resumed  his  jog-trot.  Philip, 
holding  the  reins  in  his  left  hand,  grasped  his  pistol 


214  DUST. 

•with  his  right,  and  cocked  it.  Marion  rose  to  her  feet, 
and  sent  forth  her  voice,  with  an  astonishing  volume  of 
sound,  leaping  penetratingly  into  the  night.  Another 
shout  answered  hers  more  faintly  from  the  blind  region 
beyond.  It  was  not  repeated.  The  wagon  jolted  roughly 
over  a  narrow  bridge  that  spanned  a  still-flowing  brook. 
Then,  like  a  sudden  portentous  birth  out  of  sable  chaos, 
sprang  the  scrambling  speed  of  a  horse's  headlong  gal- 
lop, and  a  dark  mass  hurtled  by,  with  fiery  sparks  smit- 
ten from  the  flinty  road  by  iron-shod  hoofs.  It  passed 
them  and  was  gone,  plunging  into  invisibility  with  a 
sort  of  fury  of  haste,  as  of  a  lost  spirit  rushing  at  anni- 
hilation. 

Philip  had  raised  his  weapon  to  fire,  but  a  shade  of 
doubt  made  him  forbear  to  pull  the  trigger.  This  man 
might  not  be  the  guilty  one,  and  to  kill  an  innocent  man 
would  be  worse  than  to  let  a  guilty  man  escape.  Marion, 
who  was  looking  straight  forward,  had  not  seemed  to 
notice  the  figure  at  all  as  it  swept  past.  All  her  facul- 
ties were  co'ncentrated  elsewhere.  The  old  white  horse, 
apparently  startled  out  of  his  customary  impassivity, 
lifted  up  his  nose  and  rattled  the  wagon  along  at  a  sur- 
prising rate.  But  the  journey  was  nearly  at  an  end. 

A  little  way  beyond  the  bridge,  the  road,  which  had 
heretofore  lain  between  hawthorn  hedges,  out  of  which, 
at  intervals,  grew  large  elm  or  lime  trees,  suddenly 
spread  out  to  three  or  four  times  its  general  breadth, 
forming  a  sort  of  open  place  of  oval  shape,  and  about 
half  an  acre  in  area.  The  road  passed  along  one  side 
of  this  oval ;  the  rest  was  turf,  somewhat  marshy  to- 
ward the  left.  Philip  stopped  the  horse  and  he  and 
Marion  got  down.  He  took  the  lantern,  and  they  went 
forward  on  foot.  The  narrow  rays  of  the  lantern,  strik- 
ing along  the  ground  in  front,  rested  flickeringly  upon  a 
dark  object  lying  near  the  edge  of  the  road,  next  the 
turf.  They  walked  up  to  the  object  and  Philip  stooped 


DUST.  215 

to  examine  it,  Marion  standing  by  with  her  head  turned 
away.  But,  at  an  exclamation  from  Philip,  she  started 
violently  and  began  to  tremble. 

"  There  are  two  here  1"  he  said. 

Marion's  teeth  chattered.  "Dead?"  she  said,  in  a 
thin  voice. 

"  No.  At  least,  one  of  them  is  not.  His  heart  beats, 
and  .  .  .  Yes,  he's  trying  to  say  something."  Philip 
stooped  lower,  and  let  all  the  light  of  the  lantern  fall  on 
this  man's  face.  "  I  don't  recognize  him — or — why,  it's 
Bendibow  1" 

Marion  caught  her  breath  sharply.     "  Sir  Francis  ?" 

"No,  no — Tom  Bendibow." 

Marion  said  nothing,  but  knelt  down  beside  the  other 
figure,  which  was  lying  prostrate,  and  turned  it  over, 
so  that  the  face  was  revealed.  It  was  Mr.  Grant,  and 
he  was  dead,  shot  through  the  heart.  After  a  few  mo- 
ments she  looked  up  at  Philip  and  said  huskily : 

"  You  should  have  fired  at  him." 


CHAPTEK  XXI. 

THE  dead  man's  horse  had  disappeared,  and  was 
probably  trotting  back  to  his  stable  in  Twickenham. 
But  Tom  Bendibow's  steed,  which  knew  its  master, 
could  be  heard  cropping  the  herbage  a  few  rods  away, 
at  the  other  end  of  the  open  place.  This  sound,  and  the 
struggling  breathing  of  Tom  himself,  were  distinctly 
audible  in  the  stillness  of  the  night. 

Marion,  after  there  was  no  longer  any  doubt  as  to  Mr. 
Grant's  being  dead,  sat  for  several  minutes  motionless 
and  silent,  his  head  resting  on  her  lap.  Philip  mean- 
while was  examining  Tom's  injuries,  which  proved  to 
be  a  crushing  blow  at  the  base  of  the  head,  behind  the 
right  ear,  and  two  upper  ribs  on  the  same  side  broken, 
apparently  by  the  stamp  of  a  horse's  hoof.  It  seemed 
hardly  possible  that  he  could  live  long. 

"  Shall  I  lift  them  into  the  wagon  ?"  he  asked  Marion. 
"We  should  lose  no  time  in  getting  home." 

"If  you  take  out  the  seat  of  the  wagon,  they  can 
lie  at  full  length,"  she  said.  "I  will  get  in  with  them. 
You  must  ride  Mr.  Bendibow's  horse  and  lead  ours." 

The  plan  was  as  good  as  the  circumstances  admitted ; 
and  Philip,  assisted  by  Marion,  succeeded  in  lifting  the 
two  lifeless  weights  into  the  bottom  of  the  vehicle,  in 
which  had  previously  been  placed  a  kind  of  pillow,  im- 
provised out  of  Philip's  coat  and  Marion's  shawl.  Ma- 
rion then  got  in  and  supported  Tom  in  such  a  manner 
that  the  jolting  might  distress  him  as  little  as  possible  ; 
and  finally,  Philip,  having  caught  and  mounted  Tom's 
horse,  grasped  the  reins  of  the  baker's  phlegmatic  steed, 
and  the  party  moved  forward.  The  strange  darkness, 
216 


DUST.  217 

which  had  been  at  its  densest  at  the  moment  of  the 
catastrophe,  now  began  to  lighten;  a  star  or  two  ap- 
peared toward  the  east,  and  gradually  the  heavy  veil 
of  obscurity  was  withdrawn  in  the  direction  of  the 
west  and  south.  The  faces  of  the  two  victims  were 
faintly  revealed.  Mr.  Grant's  countenance  bore  a  serene 
and  austere  expression;  but  poor  Tom's  features  were 
painful  to  contemplate — the  heaviness  of  insensibility  al- 
ternated there  with  the  contractions  of  suffering.  "Poor 
boy  !"  Marion  murmured,  more  than  once,  but  with  an 
inward  and  musing  tone,  as  it  her  compassion  extended 
to  something  beyond  his  physical  calamity.  At  other 
times  this  compassionate  aspect  gave  place  to  an  expres- 
sion of  stern  severity ;  and  this  again  was  once  or  twice 
succeeded  by  a  beautifully  tender  look,  which  deepened 
her  eyes  and  made  her  lips  move  tremulously.  Few 
words  were  exchanged  between  her  and  Philip  during 
their  sad  journey,  which  seemed  to  both  of  them  as  long 
as  a  lifetime,  and  yet  brief. 

Brief  or  long,  the  journey  ended  at  last,  and  in  the 
paleness  of  early  dawn,  Philip,  with  the  help  of  the 
astounded  baker,  who  had  been  aroused  for  the  purpose, 
carried  Tom  Bendibow  and  the  body  of  Mr.  Grant 
through  the  iron  gate,  and  beneath  the  overspreading 
limbs  of  the  cedar,  and  into  the  house  where  Mrs.  Lock- 
hart,  horror-stricken  and  speechless,  stood  to  receive 
them.  Then  the  baker  was  sent  for  a  physician ;  the 
dead  man's  body  was  laid  on  the  bed  in  his  chamber, 
and  Philip  did  whatever  was  possible  to  make  Bendibow 
comfortable  in  his  own  room.  The  latter  had  by  this 
time  begun  to  regain  the  use  of  his  senses,  and  with 
these — though  only  feebly  and  at  intervals — the  power 
of  speech. 

"Did  the  ...  fellow  who  did  this  ...  get  off?" 
was  his  first  question.  To  which  Philip  replied  in  the 
affirmative. 


218  DUST. 

After  a  pause  Tom  resumed :  "  "Well,  I'm  done  for !" 

"Nothing  of  the  sort ;  you  will  be  all  right  in  time,'1 
said  Philip. 

"No;  I'm  a  dead  man;  and  .  .  .  I'll  tell  you 
what,  I'm  .  .  glad  of  it  1"  He  said  this  with  all  the 
emphasis  at  his  command.  By-and-by  he  added,  "  What 
about  the  .  .  .  old  gentleman  ?" 

"  Shot  through  the  heart." 

Several  minutes  passed,  and  Philip  thought  that  Tom 
was  relapsing  into  unconsciousness,  when  he  suddenly 
exclaimed :  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  he's  dead  ?" 

"He  died  instantly." 

"Give  me  .  .  .  some  water,"  said  Tom,  with  a 
ghastly  expression ;  and  after  he  had  drank,  he  con- 
tinued, "I  tried  to  help;  but  when  I  heard  his  voice" 
...  he  broke  off  abruptly. 

"  Whose  voice  ?  Oh,  you  mean  Marion's — Miss  Lock- 
hart." 

"Very  likely,"  said  Tom.  "I'd  better  tell  you  how 
it  all  came  on :  I  shan't  be  of  any  use  by  the  time  the 
inquest  begins.  I  rode  over  the  river  to  meet  him  .  .  . 
to  give  the  letter,  you  know.  Took  the  wrong  road,  but 
he'd  taken  it,  too,  so  ...  we  rode  along  together,  talk- 
ing, first  about  Perdita :  then  he  spoke  of  Miss  Lock- 
hart  .  .  .  she  was  on  his  mind ;  he  liked  her,  didn't  he  ?" 

"  That's  strange  I"  muttered  Philip  to  himself. 

"  And  we  talked  about  .  .  .  well,  no  matter  !  Then 
my  girths  got  loose  and  I  got  down  to  tighten  'em,  and 
he  rode  on.  Just  as  I  was  mounting  I  heard  another 
horse  coming  along  .  .  .  and  there  seemed  to  be  some 
row  ...  I  rode  up.  I  heard  him  say,  '  Hand  it  over, 
or  .  .  .  '" 

"  The  highwayman  said  that  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Tom,  after  a  long  pause.  "By  that 
time  I  was  almost  on  'em.  He  fired ;  by  the  flash  I  saw 
bis  fece  ...  Oh,  my  God  1" 


DUST.  219 

"  You  would  know  him  again,  then  ?" 

"I  shall  never  see  him  again,"  replied  Tom,  with  a 
certain  doggedness  of  tone.  His  bearing  during  this 
conversation  had  been  so  singular,  and  in  some  respects 
so  unaccountable,  that  Philip  was  disposed  to  think  his 
mind  was  affected.  "You  had  better  rest,"  he  said 
kindly. 

"I  shall  rest — till  Judgment  Day,"  replied  the 
wounded  youth ;  "  and  I  shan't  say  much  more  before 
then.  Oh,  I  have  my  wits  about  me  .  .  .  more  now 
than  when  that  shot  was  fired  !  Just  after  that  I  heard 
a  call  somewhere  down  the  road  ;  I  shouted  back.  Then 
he  rode  at  me  and  hit  me  with  the  butt  of  his  pistol. 
Well,  he's  a  villain ;  but  it's  better  for  me  to  die  than 
to  hang  him.  I've  had  enough." 

At  this  point  Marion  came  to  the  door  with  a  letter 
in  her  hand,  and  as  Philip  approached  her,  she  said  to 
him  in  a  low  voice  :  "I found  this  in  Mr.  Grant's  pocket. 
It  is  addressed  to  Perdita  Desmoines.  What  shall  be 
done  about  it  ?" 

Philip  took  the  letter  from  her  and  looked  at  it.  It 
was  inclosed  in  a  sealed  packet  of  stout  paper,  and  the 
address  was  in  Mr.  Grant's  handwriting.  Its  appear- 
ance indicated  that  it  had  been  kept  for  some  time ;  the 
corners  were  dog-eared  and  the  edges  somewhat  worn. 
Across  the  corner  of  the  packet  was  the  following  in- 
dorsement : 

"In  case  of  my  decease  to  be  handed  at  once  to  the  per- 
son to  whom  it  is  addressed,  and  on  no  account  to  be 
opened  by  any  other  person.  J.  G." 

"I  can't  leave  here  at  present,"  said  Lancaster,  "and 
'twould  not  be  safe  to  trust  it  to  a  messenger.  Let  it 
wait  till  this  evening  or  to-morrow." 

"What's  that  about  Perdita?"  demanded  Tom  from 
the  bed ;  for,  with  the  abnormal  acuteness  of  perception 


220  DUST. 

that  sometimes  characterizes  the  dying,  he  had  caught 
her  name.  "A  letter  for  her?  Send  for  her,  Miss  Lock- 
hart,  please  !  I  want  to  see  her  before  I  go.  And  she 
ought  to  be  here  besides.  Tell  her  that  he's  dead  and 
I'm  dying  and  she'll  come." 

Philip  questioned  Marion's  face  with  a  look,  and  she 
responded  by  a  look  of  assent.  She  had  long  ago  di- 
vined the  secret  of  poor  Tom's  love,  and  now  the  new 
birth  in  her  own  heart  had  quickened  her  sympathies 
toward  all  lovers.  "  I  will  write  her  a  message  and  send 
it  off  immediately,"  she  said,  walking  up  to  the  bedside 
and  touching  the  boy's  hand  softly  with  her  own.  "  She 
will  be  here  by  the  time  the  surgeon  has  dressed  your 
wounds,  and  then  you'll  be  feeling  better.  You  are  not 
to  die,  sir.  Madame  Desmoines  and  I  will  nurse  you 
and  make  you  well." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Torn,  closing  his  eyes  with  a 
sigh ;  and,  yielding  to  his  exhaustion,  he  sank  into  a 
semi-somnolent  state  which  seemed  likely  to  last  some 
time. 

"By-the-by,"  said  Philip,  when  Marion  had  written 
her  message  to  Perdita,  "there's  this  boy's  father;  I 
forgot  about  him  ;  he  must  be  summoned  instantly.  I'll 
send  word  to  him  post-haste." 

"Do  you  think  he  will  come?"  she  answered,  glanc- 
ing at  him  for  a  moment  and  then  looking  away.  But 
before  Philip  could  reply  to  so  singular  a  query,  she  re- 
sponded to  herself,  "I  suppose  he  would.  And  it  would 
be  worth  while  to  have  him  here.  Mr.  Grant  was  his 
guest  last  night.  He  might  help  in  finding  the  mur- 
derer." 

"After  what  I've  seen  to-night,"  Philip  remarked,  "I 
should  hardly  like  to  ask  you  where  the  murderer  is." 

"This  is  different,"  she  returned,  "I  know  nothing. 
I  see  only  people  that  I  love.  Don't  think  of  me  that 
way,  Philip." 


DUST.  221 

"  You  know  how  I  think  of  you,  Marion." 

"  If  I  did  not,  I  could  not  bear  this." 

They  were  in  the  little  sitting-room  down  stairs, 
standing  by  the  window  where  they  had  so  often  stood 
before.  Overhead  was  audible  occasionally  the  soft  foot- 
fall of  Mrs.  Lockhart,  moving  about  in  the  room  where 
Grant  lay.  The  east  was  exquisite  with  the  tints  of 
approaching  sunrise,  and  the  calm  and  strength  of  na- 
ture made  the  morning  sweet.  The  earth,  which  had 
wheeled  through  the  light  and  darkness,  the  life  and 
death  of  so  many  myriad  years,  still  maintained  her  tire- 
less pace  no  less  freshly  than  on  the  first  day.  Could  a 
human  heart,  also,  turn  as  hopefully  from  the  shadows 
of  the  past,  and  voyage  onward  through  untraveled  paths 
toward  the  source  of  light  ?  or  must  the  dust  and  gloom 
of  weary  years  still  cling  to  it  and  make  its  progress 
dreary  ?  Love  is  truly  life  :  deprived  of  it,  body  and 
soul  alike  stagnate  and  decline  ;  but,  gifted  with  its 
might,  we  breathe  the  air  of  heaven  even  in  the  cham- 
ber of  death,  and  our  faces  are  illuminated  even  in  a 
dungeon. 

It  was  in  the  air  and  light  of  this  immortal  morning 
that  Marion  and  Philip  now  looked  at  each  other, 
brightened  thereby  from  within  as  the  sunrise  bright- 
ened them  from  without.  The  utterance  of  their  hearts 
was  visible  in  their  eyes,  and  there  was  hardly  need  of 
words.  But  the  love  which  has  not  avowed  itself  in 
words  is  incomplete. 

"  Will  you  be  my  wife,  Marion  ?"  said  Philip. 

"  Have  you  known  me  long  enough  ?"  was  her  reply. 

"  I  have  known  you  all  my  life." 

"But  to  have  me  will  be  more  wearisome  than  to 
know  me." 

"Marion,  I  love  you." 

"I  love  you,  Philip.  Oh,  Philip,  can  this  be  happi- 
ness that  makes  my  heart  ache  so  ?  If  I  did  not  know 


222  DU8T. 

there  was  so  much  sorrow  in  the  world,  I  could  hardly 
live  !  Can  Philip  Lancaster  belong  to  me,  and  I  to  him  I 
I  am  afraid  to  have  you  know  how  much  I  love  you.  I 
am  afraid  to  know  myself.  No  I  I  will  not  be  afraid. 
Take  me,  Philip  !  Kiss  me."  .  .  . 

It  was  with  reverence  that  Philip  kissed  her  first ; 
but  then  love  overcame  him.  There  was  no  one  like 
her  in  the  world.  He  would  be  a  hero  and  a  saint  for 
her  sake. 

About  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  Perdita,  Marquise 
Desmoines,  drove  up  to  the  gate.  She  alighted  and 
walked  quickly  up  the  path  to  the  door.  Her  face  was 
vivid,  and  her  bearing  alert  and  full  of  life.  Philip  met 
her  at  the  entrance. 

"  Is  Tom  really  dying  ?"  was  her  first  question. 

"  He  seems  to  wish  it,  and  the  surgeon  gives  no  en- 
couragement. He  is  anxious  to  see  you." 

"  Is  it  known  who  did  this  ?" 

"Nothing  as  yet.  Tom  Bendibow  seemed  to  have 
something  on  his  mind,  but  I  think  he  wanders  a  little. 
He  may  speak  more  explicitly  to  you." 

"Take  me  to  him,"  said  Perdita;  and  when  they 
were  at  the  door  of  the  room  she  added :  "I  will  see 
him  alone."  So  Philip  went  away,  thoughtfully. 

Perdita  closed  the  door  and  moved  up  to  the  bedside. 

Tom's  face  was  turned  toward  her :  it  had  the  pallor 
of  coming  death  upon  it,  but  her  propinquity  seemed  to 
check  the  ebbing  current  of  vitality,  and  to  restore  the 
poor  youth  in  some  measure  to  himself. 

"Good  morning,  Perdita,"  he  said,  with  a  feeble  echo 
of  cheerfulness  in  his  tone.  "I  told  you  yesterday  I'd 
like  to  die  for  you,  and  here  I  am  at  it,  you  see  I" 

"  Do  anything  but  that,  Tom.     I  want  you  to  live." 

"It  can't  be  done,  now.  I  don't  believe  even  your 
marrying  me  would  keep  me  alive  now!"  said  Tom, 


DUST.  223 

though  with  an  intonation  as  if  the  matter  were  open 
to  question.  "And  it's  just  as  well,  you  know.  I 
had  no  notion  till  now  how  easy  dying  is.  It  doesn't 
hurt  half  so  much  as  a  licking^  at  school.  I  rather 
like  it." 

"I  wish  I  knew  who  struck  you,"  said  Perdita,  with 
a  frown  in  her  eyes. 

"Nobody  shall  ever  know  that:  I've  made  up  my 
mind  !"  said  Tom  gravely. 

"  Do  you  know,  Tom  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  do  know.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  much, 
though  I'll  tell  nothing  more.  And  it's  just  as  well  I'm 
going,  for  I  couldn't  stand  keeping  such  a  secret  long. 
Don't  try  to  guess  it,  Perdita,  please.  Whoever  he  is, 
he's  got  worse  than  hanging  already.  Let's  talk  about 
other  things.  I  found  him — your  father — and  gave  him 
the  letter.  He  never  read  it ;  the  night  was  like  pitch. 
But  we  spoke  about  you.  We've  all  of  us  made  a 
mistake  about  him ;  he  was  true  grit,  I  can  tell  you. 
Oh,  here's  a  letter  for  you,  that  came  out  of  his  pocket  1 
I'm  glad  of  it,  for  it  was  an  excuse  for  sending  for  you." 

Perdita  received  the  packet  in  her  hand,  but  scarcely 
glanced  at  it.  She  leaned  over  the  helpless  figure  of  the 
last  of  the  Bendibows,  and  stroked  the  hair  on  his 
forehead  with  a  touch  as  light  and  soothing  as  the 
waft  of  a  breeze.  "My  dear,  dear  Tom,"  she  said,  "I 
wish  I  could  have  made  you  happy.  I  am  not  happy 
myself." 

"  You  do  make  me  happy :  and  if  ...  I  say,  Per- 
dita .  .  ." 

"What,  dear?" 

"Do  you  remember  when  I  left  you  yesterday  I 
couldn't  kiss  your  hand,  because  I  felt  .  .  .  I'd  better 
not.  But  now,  you  know  .  .  ." 

"You  shall  kiss  my  lips,  dear,  if  you  care  to,"  said 
Perdita,  bending  her  lovely  face  near  him. 


224  DUST. 

"  Oh  .  .  .  But  not  yet,  Perdita ;  not  quite  yet.  Be- 
cause I  should  like  that  to  be  the  last  thing  .  .  .  the 
very  last  of  all,  you  know.  You  go  on  and  read  your 
letter,  and  let  me  hold  your  hand  ;  and  when  I'm  ready 
I'll  press  it,  so  :  and  then  .  .  .  will  you  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  anything  you  like,  dear,"  she  answered. 

She  broke  the  seal  of  the  packet.  It  contained  a  second 
inclosure,  also  sealed.  But  there  was  also  a  loose  fold  of 
paper,  on  which  was  written  the  following  : 

"MY  DEAR  DAUGHTER  :  This  will  come  to  you  when  I 
am  no  more.  It  contains  the  explanation  of  the  Past : 
why  I  left  you ;  what  manner  of  man  I,  your  father,  was. 
This  information  is  comprised  in  letters  written  by  myself 
and  others  twenty  years  ago.  I  have  kept  them  by  me 
ever  since  as  a  measure  of  defense  against  possible  injury. 
After  I  am  dead  they  will  no  longer  serve  this  use,  and  I 
do  not  require  you  to  peruse  them.  You  may,  if  you  see 
fit,  burn  them  unread ;  but,  if  you  feel  a  curiosity  as  to 
your  father's  real  fate  and  character,  I  do  not  forbid  you 
to  read  them.  Act  herein  according  to  your  own  inclina- 
tion and  judgment,  and  I  shall  be  content.  But  I  request 
you  in  no  case  to  act  against  any  other  person  on  the  au- 
thority of  what  is  contained  here.  What  is  past  in  our 
lives  may  be  used  to  increase  wisdom  and  charity,  but 
should  never  be  made  the  instrument  of  revenge. 

"My  dear  daughter,  I  have  loved  you  heartily  all  my 
life.  I  pray  that  God  may  bless  you  and  make  you  noble 
and  pure.  Your  father, 

"CHARLES  JOHN  GRANTLEY." 

After  reading  and  re-reading  this  letter,  Perdita  sat 
for  some  time  lost  in  thought.  Should  she  open  the  other 
packet  ?  Might  it  not  be  wiser  to  burn  it  ? 

Her  hand  had  been  lying  in  Tom's  meanwhile,  though 
she  had  almost  forgotten  it.  On  a  sudden  she  felt  a 
slight  pressure  ;  very  slight,  but  it  made  her  turn  quickly 
and  look  at  him.  It  was  easy  to  read  the  tidings  of  that 


DUST.  225 

face ;  pinched,  pallid,  lacking  in  beauty  and  dignity  ;  but 
the  face  of  a  man  who  loved  her  and  who  was  at  the 
point  of  death.  She  put  her  mouth  to  his  and  kissed 
him.  His  lips  just  responded  and  no  more. 

A  carriage  drove  rapidly  up  to  the  gate  and  Sir  Francis 
Bendibow's  footman  rapped  loudly  on  the  door. 


CHAPTER 

MBS.  LOCKHAKT  met  Sir  Francis  at  the  door;  he 
greeted  her  in  a  voice  louder  than  ordinary,  but  harsh, 
as  if  the  conventional  instinct  in  him  had  overstrained 
itself  in  the  effort  to  hold  its  own.  An  analogous  con- 
flict between  the  shuddering  emotion  within  and  the 
social  artifices  to  disguise  it,  was  manifest  in  his  face, 
which  rigidly,  and,  as  it  were,  violently  performed  the 
usual  motions  of  smiling  and  elegantly  composing  itself 
when  all  the  while  these  polite  antics  were  betrayed  and 
falsified  by  the  grim  reality  of  ghastly  pallor  and  sus- 
pense. And  there  was  no  necessity  for  the  baronet  to 
maintain  the  customary  elaboration  of  his  fine  manners. 
No  one  would  have  expected  it  of  him  under  the  present 
circumstances  :  on  the  contrary,  it  would  have  had  a  re- 
pugnant effect,  even  had  he  been  actor  enough  to  make 
the  pretense  seem  genuine.  But  men  like  Sir  Francis, 
who  have  trained  their  minor  natural  impulses  to  wear 
stays  and  turn  out  their  toes  (so  to  say),  are  liable  to  be 
thus  embarrassed  by  the  fearful  summons  of  some  real 
passion  of  the  heart :  they  pitifully  strive  to  clothe  the 
giant  in  the  pigmy's  bag-wig  and  small-clothes,  and  are 
too  much  bewildered  to  perceive  the  measureless  incon- 
gruity. 

"  Good  morning,  madam ;  charmed  to  see  you  look- 
ing so  well,"  were  the  baronet's  first  words  to  poor  Mrs. 
Lockhart,  who  immediately  burst  into  tears,  partly  be- 
cause she  thought  Sir  Francis  had  gone  mad,  and  partly 
because  the  contrast  between  her  feelings  and  his  obser- 
vation was  so  grotesque.  "  Is — er — are  all  well,  I  hope  ?" 
226 


DUST.  227 

* 

he  proceeded,  while  the  questioning  agony  in  his  blood- 
less lips  and  staring  eyes  seemed  to  belong  to  another 
being  than  he  who  uttered  the  meaningless  phrases. 

"  I  only  hope  you  may  not  have  come  too  late,  dear 
Sir  Francis,"  she  said,  instinctively  replying  to  his  look 
instead  of  to  his  words.  "  Poor  Mr.  Grant — he  was  mur- 
dered outright,  but  your  son  ..."  she  faltered,  and 
resumed  her  tears  .... 

The  baronet  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  with  his 
hat  under  his  arm  and  one  knee  bent — a  most  unexcep- 
tionable attitude.  He  was  dressed  at  least  as  fastidi- 
ously as  usual,  only  that,  in  shaving,  he  had  accidentally 
cut  his  cheek,  and  the  blood  had  trickled  down  and 
stained  his  else  immaculate  white  stock.  This  little 
mishap  might  fancifully  be  regarded  as  symbolical  of  his 
moral  state  at  the  moment.  He  awaited  something  fur- 
ther from  Mrs.  Lockhart ;  but  at  length,  as  she  did  not 
speak,  he  said  carefully,  "Grant  murdered!  I  cannot 
believe  it  I  He  parted  from  me,  not  twelve  hours  ago, 
in  such  capital  health  and  spirits."  Then,  after  another 
pause,  he  bent  forward  and  added  in  a  grating  whisper, 
as  if  confidentially,  "  The  message  that  summoned  me 
here  mentioned  the  name  of  my  son — Thomas.  Pardon 
a  father's  anxiety — alluding  to  him  at  such  a  moment. 
But  .  .  .  nothing  wrong  .  .  .  eh  ?" 

"  Oh,  Sir  Francis  I  the  surgeon  says  he  cannot  live  ; 
but  he  was  very  brave :  it  was  while  he  was  trying  to 
protect  Mr.  Grant  that  he  was  struck.  Oh,  how  can  any 
one  be  so  wicked  !" 

A  peculiar  sound  escaped  from  the  baronet's  throat, 
and  his  upper  lip  drew  slowly  back  so  as  to  reveal  the 
teeth.  It  seemed  to  Mrs.  Lockhart  as  if  he  were  laugh- 
ing ;  but  only  a  madman  could  laugh  at  such  a  juncture, 
and  she  trembled  with  horror.  It  was  immediately  evi- 
dent, however,  that  Sir  Francis  was  simply  in  the  grip 
of  a  horror  vastly  greater  than  hers,  and  that  it  had 


228  DUST. 

momentarily  mastered  him.  Presently  his  eyes  rolled, 
his  head  swayed  forward,  and,  had  he  not  grasped  the 
balusters,  he  would  have  fallen.  But  calling  up  all  his 
energies,  he  commanded  himself  a  little,  and,  without 
attempting  to  speak,  began  the  ascent  of  the  stairs. 
Just  then  a  door  opened  above,  and  Perdita's  voice  said 
in  a  hushed  tone  : 

"  Sir  Francis,  are  you  there  ?" 

He  stopped,  and  looked  upward ;  then,  still  in  silence, 
he  mounted  the  .remaining  stairs  with  a  labored  move- 
ment, and  arrived,  tremulous  and  panting  on  the  land- 
ing. Perdita  was  standing  at  the  door  of  Philip's  room. 
Her  brows  were  drawn  down,  and  her  eyes,  quick,  dark 
and  bright,  scrutinized  the  baronet  with  a  troubled  ex- 
pression. 

"  Is  he  there  ?"  the  latter  inquired. 

"Who  ?"  said  Perdita,  reluctantly. 

Sir  Francis  stared ;  then  half  lifted  his  hands  and  said : 
"  I  know  about  Grant ;  dead ;  can  hardly  believe  it ; 
left  me  last  night  in  such  health  and  spirits :  but  Tom 
.  .  .  as  Tom's  my  son  .  .  .  is  he  .  .  ?" 

"You  are  too  late,"  said  Perdita,  glancing  away  from 
him  as  she  spoke.  "  Poor  Tom  ;  he  deserved  something 
better." 

"Let  me  go  to  him,"  said  Sir  Francis,  moving  for- 
ward with  a  groping  gesture,  like  one  walking  in  the 
dark.  He  pushed  past  Perdita  and  entered  the  room. 
She  remained  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold,  following 
him  with  her  eyes,  and  seeming  inclined  to  retire  and 
leave  him ;  but  she  ended  by  stepping  within  and  clos- 
ing the  door  after  her. 

Sir  Francis,  however,  was  now  unconscious  of  every- 
thing except  that  which  lay  on  the  bed  before  him. 
Tom's  hands  rested  beside  him  on  the  coverlet ;  his 
father  lifted  one  of  them,  and  let  it  fall  again.  He  then 
sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  raised  the  upper  part 


DUST.  229 

of  the  body  and  supported  it  on  his  arm,  bending  his 
face  close  to  that  of  the  dead  boy,  and  giving  vent  at  in- 
tervals, below  his  breath,  to  a  kind  of  groaning  sound, 
the  most  piteous  that  had  ever  fallen  on  Perdita's  ears. 
She  remained  leaning  against  the  door,  with  an  air  of 
painful  contemplation. 

After  what  seemed  a  long  time,  and  was  undoubtedly 
long  if  measured  by  its  spiritual  effects,  the  baronet's 
moanings  gradually  subsided  into  silence ;  the  veins  in. 
his  forehead,  which  had  become  swollen  and  dark  with 
the  accumulation  of  blood  to  the  brain,  returned  to  their 
normal  state,  and  the  man  sat  erect,  gazing  into  va- 
cancy, with  a  demeanor  of  pallid  and  stony  immobility. 
Thought  seemed  to  be  at  a  standstill  within  him,  and 
even  the  susceptibility  to  suffering  had  become  torpid. 
He  sat  thus  so  long  that  at  length  Perdita's  restless  tem- 
perament could  endure  the  pause  no  more,  and  she 
spoke. 

"  Leave  him  now,  Sir  Francis.  I  wish  to  tell  you 
something." 

He  betrayed  no  sign  of  having  heard  her.  By-and-by 
she  advanced  to  the  bed,  and  stood  directly  in  front  of 
him. 

"  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  with  this  ?"  she  de- 
manded, holding  up  the  sealed  enclosure  which  had  ac- 
companied Grant's  letter. 

"These  are  not  business  hours,"  said  Sir  Francis, 
sluggishly.  "Tom  and  I  are  taking  a  holiday.  Our 
work  is  done." 

"His  work  is  done,  but  not  yours:  you  cannot  have 
the  privileges  of  death  until  you  die,"  Perdita  answered. 

"I  know  more  about  death  than  you  imagine,"  re- 
sponded the  baronet,  in  the  same  halting  tone.  "You 
needn't  grudge  me  the  privileges :  I  have  the  rest." 

"I  am  sorry  for  you — sorrier  than  I  should  have 
thought  I  could  be," said  Perdita  ;  "but  there  are  some 


230  DUST. 

things  which  must  be  said  between  us  :  for  my  father  is 
dead  as  well  as  your  son ;  and  since  I  can  no  longer 
learn  from  him,  you  must  hear  and  answer  me.  Come, 
Sir  Francis  ;  I  have  always  had  my  way  with  you  in  the 
end." 

"No  one  has  any  weapons  against  me  now;  they're 
all  here !"  said  the  baronet,  laying  his  finger  on  Tom's 
shoulder  with  the  word. 

"I  mean  to  know  the  truth,  however,"  returned  Per- 
dita,  with  a  resolution  that  sat  strangely  on  her  subtle 
and  changeful  beauty.  "  It  was  Tom  himself  who  told 
me  the  man  who  called  himself  Grant  was  my  father : 
the  rest  is  contained  in  this  enclosure  ;  shall  I  read  it, 
or  will  you  speak  V" 

"How  came  you  by  that?"  inquired  the  baronet, 
for  the  first  time  fixing  his  eyes  upon  the  packet  in  her 
hand. 

"It  was  found,  addressed  to  me,  in  the  pocket  of 
Charles  Grantley's  coat.  But  first,  listen  to  this  letter, 
which  accompanied  it." 

"Not  here  1"  said  the  other,  lifting  his  hand.  "Would 
you  dishonor  me  in  my  boy's  presence  ?" 

"  He  knew  enough  to  make  him  suspect  you  before  he 
died." 

Sir  Francis  shrank  as  if  he  had  been  stung.  "  Don't 
tell  me  that!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  may  call  me  a 
robber  and  a  murderer,  if  you  like,  and  tell  the  world  of 
it ;  I  may  have  failed  in  everything  else,  but  I  kept  my 
boy's  confidence — he  never  doubted  me  a  moment  .  .  . 
did  he  ?"  At  the  last  words  his  voice  fell  from  passion- 
ate assertion  to  quavering  entreaty. 

"You  are  not  much  of  a  man,"  said  Perdita  coldly. 
"  You  should  not  be  a  villain  if  you  fear  to  face  the  conse- 
quences and  to  stand  alone.  Tom  was  more  manly  than 
you  ;  he  despised  you  because  you  were  afraid  of  Grant- 
ley,  instead  of  crushing  him,  or,  at  least,  defying  him. 


DUST.  231 

And  has  no  one  suffered  besides  you  ?"  she  continued, 
with  rising  fire.  "  See  what  you  have  made  of  me  !  If 
my  father  had  been  with  me,  to  love  me,  and  for  me  to 
love  and  honor,  I  should  not  have  been  what  I  am.  You 
parted  us — as  I  now  believe  by  a  cowardly  and  slander- 
ous falsehood.  You  brought  me  up  to  think  the  thoughts 
of  a  woman  of  the  world  and  a  libertine  while  I  was 
still  a  child.  You  gave  me  nothing  to  care  for  but  my 
own  success — for  money  and  power ;  and  at  last  you 
married  me  to  a  worn-out  formalist,  whose  very  virtues 
made  sin  seem  delightful.  I  have  never  had  help  or 
sympathy  from  a  human  soul,  and  that  dead  boy  is  the 
only  creature  who  ever  honestly  loved  me — and  he  would 
not  have  done  it  if  he  had  known  me  !  But,  thanks  to 
you,  I  can't  even  be  sorry  for  my  failings  now  ;  I  know 
more  than  I  feel !  I  know  when  I  've  been  injured, 
though  I  can't  feel  the  injury,  and  I  mean  to  have  what 
is  due  me.  I  have  believed  all  my  life  that  my  father 
was  an  embezzler  and  a  scoundrel,  a  man  whose  name 
and  connection  were  a  disgrace :  a  millstone  round  my 
neck ;  some  one  whom  I  was  to  remember  only  to  for- 
get and  deny — and  now,  when  it  is  too  late  to  be  of  any 
good  to  me,  because  I  am  too  old  to  change,  and  when 
he  is  dead,  I  am  to  find  out  that  you  and  not  he  have 
been  the  villain !  I  have  heard  you  whimpering  over 
your  boy,  and  I  pitied  you  ;  but  why  should  I  pity  you  ? 
Whom  did  you  ever  pity  ?  If  you  had  a  glimmer  of 
nobility  left  in  you,  you  would  be  glad  that  he  died 
before  you  were  exposed  and  shamed.  And  you  shall 
be  exposed  and  shamed :  I  will  do  it !  Here  are  your 
good  name  and  prosperity,  in  this  packet.  Are  you 
ready  to  see  it  published  ?"  She  held  the  packet  at 
arm's  length  before  his  face ;  there  was  something  al- 
most appalling  in  the  sparkle  of  her  eyes  and  the  bitter 
movement  of  her  lips. 
Sir  Francis  had  listened  to  this  harangue  at  first  with  a 


232  DUST. 

tremor  of  the  nerves,  as  one  who  awaits  the  fall  of  a  thun- 
derbolt ;  then  even  the  strength  to  fear  seemed  to  lapse 
away,  and  he  sat  gazing  at  Perdita  with  a  dull,  unre< 
sponsive  countenance,  while  she  kindled  more  and  more 
with  the  story  of  her  wrongs  and  resolve  to  retaliate. 
When  she  ended  with  her  fierce  question  he  said  heavily, 
"  Do  what  you  like,  my  dear.  You  don't  know  all.  The 
letters  are  interesting — I'd  have  risked  hanging  to  get 
'em  last  night ;  but  I  don't  care  to  raise  my  hand  for 
'em  now.  You  don't  know  all.  I've  struck  myself  a 
deadlier  blow  than  you  can  strike  me,  with  all  the  world 
at  your  back.  Do  what  you  like,  and  then  .  .  .  leave 
me  alone  with  my  boy.  He  and  I  may  laugh  over  this 
some  day — who  knows  I" 

Perdita  looked  at  him  curiously.  "  Sir  Francis,"  she 
said,  "do  you  admit  all  these  accusations ?  Remember, 
I  haven't  read  these  letters  ;  they  are  sealed  still ;  I  have 
no  sure  grounds  yet  for  my  suspicions.  For  all  I  could 
prove,  you  may  be  innocent — unless  these  letters  are 
the  proof.  Are  they  or  not  ?" 

"  I  suppose  they  are,"  was  his  reply,  in  the  same  tone 
as  before.  "I  don't  know  what  else  they  can  be.  Do 
what  you  like,  my  dear." 

"Well,  we  shall  see,"  said  Perdita,  after  a  pause. 
She  turned  and  walked  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  The 
door  of  Mr.  Grant's  room,  on  the  other  side  of  the  land- 
ing, was  ajar,  and  Marion  was  visible  within.  Perdita 
beckoned  to  her.  Marion  probably  supposed  that  the 
Marquise  was  going  to  inform  her  of  Tom's  death,  for 
she  came  forward  at  once  with  a  face  full  of  tender  com- 
passion and  sympathy.  The  influences  of  the  past  night 
and  morning  had  wrought  an  effect  in  Marion's  nature 
and  aspect  like  the  blossoming-out  of  a  flower,  whose 
delicate  freshness  had  heretofore  been  veiled  within  a 
rough  calyx.  Such  changes  are  scarcely  to  be  described 
in  set  terms,  belonging,  as  they  do,  rather  to  the  spirit 


DUST.  233 

than  to  the  body ;  the  outward  signs  seemed  limited  to 
a  certain  ennobling  of  the  forms  and  movements  of  the 
face,  a  soft  shining  of  the  eyes,  and  an  eloquent  modu- 
lation of  the  voice.  The  imperious  flush  and  angry 
preoccupation  of  Perdita's  countenance,  while  they  em- 
phasized her  beauty,  put  her  on  a  level  of  attractiveness 
inferior  to  Marion's  at  this  moment,  despite  the  latter's 
comparative  plainness. 

"Can  anything  be  done  to  help?"  Marion  asked  as 
she  came  in.  But  as  soon  as  she  caught  sight  of  Sir 
Francis  she  paused  and  murmured,  "  Ah,  poor  soul  I  I 
wish  I  could  comfort  him. " 

"He  seems  resigned,"  said  Perdita,  ungently.  "Death 
alters  us  all,  Marion,  whether  we  die  or  survive.  I  am 
resigned,  too  ;  though  my  lover  is  dead  in  this  room,  and 
my  father  in  that  1" 

"Mr.  Grant  ..." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Grant — Charles  Grantley,  my  father ;  who 
was  accused  of  high  crimes  and  misdemeanors,  and 
driven  into  exile,  and  who  came  back  to  England  to  see 
his  daughter  and  be  murdered  by  a  footpad.  You  were 
fond  of  him,  were  you  not  ?" 

"Whoever  he  was,  he  committed  no  crime,"  said  Ma- 
rion loftily. 

"  Why,  so  I  think.  But  up  to  this  time  it  has  been 
made  to  appear  otherwise.  If  he  was  not  guilty,  he  has 
been  greatly  wronged,  has  he  not  ?" 

Marion  seemed  about  to  answer  impetuously  ;  but  her 
eyes  fell  upon  Sir  Francis,  and  she  compressed  her  lips 
and  was  silent. 

"He  has  been  a  by-word  of  contempt  and  dishonor 
for  twenty  years,"  Perdita  continued,  "  and  now  he  has 
died  with  the  stain  still  upon  him.  If  he  was  innocent, 
that  seems  a  pity,  doesn't  it  ?  I  am  his  daughter,  and 
my  honor  is  involved  in  his.  You  had  a  father :  what 
would  you  have  done  in  my  place  ?" 


234  DUST. 

"  I  would  have  found  the  proof  of  his  innocence,  if  it 
was  in  the  world." 

"  Well,  and  what  then  ?" 

"  I  should  be  content  .   .   .   I  hope." 

"  I  am  not  content !"  exclaimed  Perdita.  "  What  use 
is  the  proof,  unless  to  give  him  hack  his  honorable 
name,  and  to  punish  the  man  who  betrayed  him  ?  I 
have  some  letters  sealed  up  here  that  will  do  all  that,  I 
think ;  and  Sir  Francis  Bendibow  must  be  content  to 
hear  them  read,  and  .  .  ." 

"Do  not  do  it,  Perdita,"  interposed  Marion,  in  a  low 
but  urgent  voice.  "  His  heart  is  broken  already." 

"What  is  that  to  me?"  the  other  returned.  "His 
broken  heart  will  not  mend  my  father's  good  name." 

"Your  father  is  dead,"  said  Marion,  "and  you  would 
kill  him  again  if  you  do  not  let  his  spirit  live  in  you. 
Why  should  you  reveal  the  secret  that  he  kept  all  his 
life  ?  If  he  chose  to  suffer  unjustly,  it  was  because  he 
was  too  noble  to  vindicate  himself.  He  bequeathes  his 
nobility  to  you  ;  and  you  should  spare  his  enemies,  since 
he  spared  them." 

"This  is  a  practical  world,"  Perdita  remarked,  with 
an  odd  smile  ;  "I'm  afraid  it  would  misinterpret  such 
refined  generosity.  However,  your  idea  is  interesting 
and  original ;  I  've  a  mind  to  adopt  it.  It  would  be 
amusing,  for  once,  to  mount  a  moral  pedestal  above 
one's  friends.  But  I  can't  make  an  angel  of  myself  in 
a  moment :  I  shall  give  this  packet  to  you  to  keep  for 
me  :  if  I  were  to  read  the  contents  I  should  never  be  able 
to  hold  my  tongue.  Here — take  it  quickly,  before  my 
pedestal  crumbles !  Well,  Sir  Francis,  I  wish  you  joy  ; 
you  are  an  honest  man  again  !" 

"  If  I  had  not  been  sure  your  father  was  innocent,  I 
should  know  it  now,"  said  Marion.  "Wicked  men  do 
not  have  such  daughters." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear ;  you  must  let  me  kiss  you  for 


DUST.  235 

that ;  though  my  virtue  is  not  my  own,  but  yours.  Now 
take  me  into  the  other  room ;  I  wish  to  see  my  father 
before  I  go." 

Marion  accompanied  her  to  the  chamber  where  Charles 
Grantley  lay,  and  would  have  left  her  at  the  threshold, 
but  Perdita  kept  fast  hold  of  her  hand,  and  drew  her  in. 
They  stood  beside  the  bed  and  looked  down  at  the  quiet 
face. 

"What  are  hardships?"  said  Perdita  after  awhile. 
"Are  they  what  happen  to  us,  or  what  we  create  in  our- 
selves ?  He  seems  at  peace.  Hardships  are  hard  hearts. 
Good-by,  father.  After  all  ...  you  might  have  kept 
your  daughter  with  you  1" 

After  giving  some  directions  about  the  body,  she  de- 
parted. But  Sir  Francis  still  remained  in  Lancaster's 
chamber,  with  his  son  in  his  arms.  Their  holiday  was 
not  over. 


CHAPTEE  XXin. 

WHEN  a  man  is  dying,  or  just  dead,  it  often  seems, 
to  those  interested  in  the  matter,  that  he  is  taken  off 
prematurely ;  that  he  leaves  his  life  incomplete ;  that 
his  usefulness  was  not  at  an  end ;  that  he  and  those 
who  were  bound  to  him  would  have  been  the  better  had 
he  survived.  Death  seems  like  a  violence,  a  robbery,  a 
wrong ;  and  all  the  more  wrongful  a  robbery,  because 
we  are  powerless  to  resist  it  or  to  punish  it.  The  mother 
who  mourns  her  infant,  the  lover  who  looks  on  the  dead 
face  of  his  mistress,  the  child  who  feels  a  dim  horror  at 
the  unresponsive  coldness  of  the  hand  whose  every  touch 
was  love,  the  friend  who  sees  the  horizon  of  his  own  life 
darken  and  his  pathway  narrow  at  the  grave  of  his 
friend — to  these  it  seems  that  an  injury  has  been  in- 
flicted upon  them,  the  traces  of  which  no  compensation 
can  remove. 

And  yet,  as  the  mind  moves  forward  through  the  suc- 
cession of  moods  and  events  that  is  called  time,  how 
speedily  this  wound  of  loss  is  healed  I  Not  those  who 
nurse  their  grief  the  longest  are  always  the  ones  who 
loved  most  generously  and  whole-heartedly.  Often  there 
is  more  love  of  self  than  love  of  the  departed  in  those 
who  refuse  to  be  comforted.  By-and-by,  as  we  journey 
on  along  the  road  of  mortal  existence,  meeting  at  every 
step  fresh  scenery  and  new  thoughts  and  demands  for 
action,  and  knowing  that  for  us  there  is  no  retreating, 
no  pausing  even  ;  only,  at  most,  a  profitless  glance  back- 
ward at  scenes  and  occurrences  whose  sole  reality  now 
is  in  the  growth  or  decay  which  they  have  wrought  in 
236 


DUST.  237 

our  own  souls ;  by-and-by  we  begin  to  discover  that  the 
dead  have  not  been  left  behind ;  that,  in  such  measure 
as  we  truly  loved  them,  in  that  measure  are  they  with 
us  still,  walking  hand  in  hand  with  us,  or  shining  as 
guides  of  our  forecasting  thoughts,  and  strengthening 
our  hearts  in  dreams  and  secret  musings.  Death,  which 
seemed  so  arbitrary  and  reckless,  is  vindicated  by  our 
wiser  and  calmer  judgment.  The  mortal  life  that  seemed 
cut  short,  is  seen  to  have  lasted  out  its  fitting  span ; 
more  years  would  have  been  more  evil  and  less  good, 
more  weariness  and  less  use.  Suddenness  is  predicable 
only  of  material  things ;  in  the  processes  and  passions 
of  the  spirit  there  is  at  all  times  just  proportion  and 
equable  movement.  It  is  outside  the  domain  of  accidents 
and  violence. 

As  regards  Charles  Grantley's  death,  there  was  not, 
it  may  be  surmised,  any  wide  necessity  to  preach  resig- 
nation. His  acquaintances  were  not  many ;  his  friends 
few  indeed.  To  the  majority  even  of  those  who  knew 
him,  his  true  name  and  antecedents  were  unknown. 
The  mystery  and  ambiguity  which  had  attached  to  him 
were  scarcely  likely  to  increase  his  popularity ;  and 
probably  the  only  thing  that  could  have  drawn  any- 
thing like  general  attention  to  his  end  was  the  fact  of 
its  being  a  murder.  But  murders  and  robberies  were 
not  so  rare  in  the  London  environs  then  as  they  are 
now ;  at  all  events  they  excited  less  remark ;  a  high- 
wayman was  still  a  difficulty  to  be  reckoned  with  by 
belated  travelers ;  and,  moreover,  men's  minds  had  be- 
come more  or  less  callous  to  the  idea  of  bloodshed  and 
violence,  after  so  many  years  of  wars  and  outrage.  Ac- 
cordingly, Mr.  Grantley's  funeral  was  but  thinly  at- 
tended, comprising  few  or  none  beyond  the  indispensa- 
ble churchyard  officials  and  the  immediate  personages 
of  the  present  history.  From  the  number  of  the  latter, 
indeed,  Sir  Francis  Bendibow  must  be  subtracted.  An- 


238  J)UST. 

other  funeral  took  place  on  the  same  day,  in  which  he 
may  be  supposed  to  have  felt  an  even  greater  interest ; 
and  yet  he  was  absent  even  from  that.  The  fact  is,  the 
unfortunate  baronet's  mind  had  received  a  shock  which 
prevented  him  from  clearly  apprehending  the  full  extent 
of  the  calamity  which  had  caused  it.  The  notion  that 
he  and  his  son  were  enjoying  a  holiday  together,  and 
were  not  to  be  disturbed,  seemed  the  most  inveterate 
of  his  delusions,  as  it  had  been  Ms  first.  Possibly  it 
was  not  so  much  positive  mania  in  him  as  the  uncon- 
trollable shrinking  of  his  soul  from  the  horror  of  the 
truth ;  analogous  to  the  instinct  which  makes  us  turn 
away  our  eyes  from  a  too-revolting  spectacle.  Feeling 
that  to  confront  and  realize  the  facts  would  overturn 
his  reason,  he  abandoned  reason  in  the  effort  to  preserve 
it.  But  all  the  while,  in  some  remote  recess  of  his  mind, 
veiled  even  from  himself,  must  have  lurked  the  fatal 
knowledge  which  he  strove  to  escape.  It  was  there,  like 
a  relentless  and  patient  enemy,  lying  in  wait  for  him, 
and  sure  to  spring  forth  and  throttle  him  at  last.  Else 
wherefore  was  there  that  furtive  gleam  of  terror  in  the 
baronet's  sunken  and  heavy-lidded  eyes?  "Why  did  he 
sigh  so  deeply  and  so  piteously  ?  What  was  the  reason 
of  those  long  fits  of  musings,  during  which  his  face 
worked  so  strangely,  and  his  lips  grew  so  white  and 
dry  ?  Why  did  he  so  anxiously  shun  the  sound  of  what- 
ever might  imply  the  truth  ?  No ;  if  this  were  madness, 
it  was  the  madness  of  concealment,  not  of  ignorance. 
Only  a  gleam  of  sanity  could  render  him  truly  insane. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  it  became  known  that  the  late 
events  had  compelled  Sir  Francis  to  retire  temporarily 
from  society,  and  from  the  conduct  of  his  business  ;  and 
much  sympathy  was  expressed,  on  all  sides,  for  the  un- 
happy gentleman  ;  and  grave  speculations  were  indulged 
in  as  to  the  probable  future  of  the  Bank,  in  case  his  re- 
tirement should  be  prolonged.  Not  readily  were  to  be 


DUST.  239 

found  business  aptitudes  and  experience  comparable  to 
his.  Moreover,  the  times  were  hard,  just  at  present; 
and  although  the  Bank's  credit  was  now,  as  at  all  times, 
unexceptionable,  yet  even  the  Bank  was  but  a  human 
institution,  and  all  human  institutions  partake  of  human 
perishableness.  It  was  impossible  to  be  too  prudent, 
when,  as  now,  empires  might  change  hands  or  vanish 
at  any  moment.  Finance  is  not  a  matter  of  sentiment ; 
and  though  it  is  always  agreeable  to  have  business  rela- 
tions with  a  man  who  is  at  once  aristocratic  and  charm- 
ing, yet  when  the  personage  in  question  is  represented 
only  through  his  clerks,  such  considerations  are  in  abey- 
ance. Thus  it  happened  that  a  good  many  clients  of  the 
famous  Bank  of  Bendibow  Brothers  withdrew  their  de- 
posits and  placed  them  elsewhere  ;  and  the  world  went  on. 
Meanwhile  the  murderer  of  the  old  East  Indian  re- 
mained at  large,  the  police  being  unable  to  form  any 
trustworthy  idea  as  to  who  or  where  he  was.  At  the 
inquest,  everybody  who  could  be  conceived  to  have  any 
connection  with  the  case  (including  the  baker  who  lent 
Miss  Lockhart  his  wagon,  and  the  ostler  of  the  "  Plough 
and  Harrow "  who  entertained  Mr.  Thomas  Bendi- 
bow on  the  last  evening  of  his  life)  were  strictly  exam- 
ined ;  and  though  several  of  them  proffered  a  vast  deal 
of  information,  little  or  none  of  it  had  much  to  do  with 
the  matter  to  be  elucidated.  The  last  highwayman 
who  had  been  known  to  infest  the  vicinity  in  which 
the  murder  took  place,  had  been  captured  and  safely 
hanged  some  time  before ;  and  this  new  aspirant  for 
the  slip-knot  evidently  meant  to  prolong  his  career  for 
a  while  longer.  His  present  venture  must  have  been  a 
disappointment  to  him ;  for  it  was  shown  that  the  de- 
ceased had  not  been  robbed  (doubtless  on  account  of  the 
unexpected  arrival  of  succor) ;  and,  even  had  the  suc- 
cor not  arrived,  no  robbery  worthy  of  the  name  could 
have  taken  place,  inasmuch  as  the  deceased  had  little 


240  DUST. 

or  no  money  in  his  pockets ;  nothing,  in  fact,  but  a 
packet  of  old  letters,  which  were  of  no  interest  to  any- 
body, and  to  a  highwayman  least  of  all.  The  jury  re- 
turned a  verdict  of  "  met  his  death  at  the  hands  of  some 
person  or  persons  unknown  ;"  and  the  world  went  on. 

But  the  seed  of  that  flower  of  love  that  had  been 
planted  in  the  soil  of  Charles  Grantley's  grave  took  root, 
and  grew,  and  blossomed  ;  and  it  bade  fair  to  be  as 
sweet  and  wholesome  a  flower  as  ever  such  seed  pro- 
duced. Marion  and  Philip,  looking  into  their  future, 
could  see  nothing  but  brightness  there,  all  the  brighter 
by  contrast  with  the  tender  shadow  of  sadness  out  of 
which  they  looked.  Nothing  but  good,  they  believed, 
could  come  from  a  union  begun  at  such  a  time,  and  with 
such  a  consecration.  The  influence  of  Grantley  was 
with  them,  with  almost  the  vividness,  at  times,  of  a 
spiritual  presence  ;  and  they  insensibly  spoke  and  acted 
on  a  higher  and  purer  plane  than  they  would  have  done 
had  he  not  lived  and  died.  If  his  mourners  were  few, 
few  men  have  been  more  tenderly  mourned ;  and  to 
Marion  especially  was  his  memory  dear  and  reverend, 
by  reason  of  the  cloud  that  had  overhung  so  large  a 
portion  of  his  life.  That  cloud,  to  her  apprehension, 
had  now  become  all  illuminated  with  heavenly  gold ; 
and  she  felt  as  little  need  to  confirm  her  faith  by  an 
examination  of  the  packet  left  in  her  care,  as  to  ask 
Philip  for  proof  of  her  love  for  him.  Marion  was  en- 
thusiastic and  imperious  in  her  faiths  even  more  than  in 
her  scepticisms.  But,  indeed,  her  whole  nature  was,  for 
the  time,  sweetened,  subdued,  and  yet  ardently  devel- 
oped. The  strangeness  and  harshness  which  had  occa- 
sionally characterized  her  in  the  past,  was  now  no  longer 
noticeable ;  her  moods  were  equal,  her  heart  happy  and 
active.  It  seemed  as  if  nothing  could  obscure  her  se- 
renity ;  and  yet  a  woman  in  her  condition  is  peculiarly 
liable  to  tragic  or  chilling  accidents.  The  delicate  and 


DUST.  241 

sensitive  petals  of  the  soul,  expanding  thus  freely  to  the 
unaccustomed  air,  are  never  so  susceptible  as  now  to 
blight  and  injury,  albeit  it  is  from  one  source  only  that 
the  harm  can  come.  Let  the  lover  walk  heedfully  at 
this  period  of  his  career,  nor  even  grasp  his  treasure  too 
firmly,  lest  unawares  it  vanish  from  his  hand,  or  be 
transformed  into  something  hostile. 

The  reading  of  Mr.  Grantley's  will  was,  for  various 
reasons,  postponed  until  about  a  week  after  his  funeral. 
Merton  Fillmore,  who  had  charge  of  it,  had  sent  a  com- 
munication to  the  Marquise  Desmoines  to  be  present  on 
the  occasion ;  but  she,  after  some  delay,  finally  let  it  be 
known  that  she  declined  the  invitation,  observing  that 
she  had  but  the  slightest  acquaintance  with  the  gentle- 
man who  called  himself  Grant,  or  Grantley,  and  that  it 
was  impossible  to  suppose  that  she  could  have  any  inte- 
rest in  the  disposition  of  his  property ;  from  which  it 
may  be  inferred  that  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  ig- 
nore, ostensively  if  not  also  from  conviction,  his  preten- 
sions to  relationship  with  her.  Upon  receiving  her  letter, 
Fillmore  stroked  his  chin  with  a  slight,  ambiguous 
smile,  and  forthwith  took  measures  to  convene  the  meet- 
ing at  Mrs.  Lockhart's  house  on  the  following  morning, 
at  twelve  o'clock. 

Now,  it  so  happened  that  Philip  had,  the  evening 
previous,  received  a  note  from  his  publisher  in  the  city, 
requesting  his  presence  at  the  office  betimes  the  next 
day.  For  Philip's  labors  during  the  last  few  months 
had  resulted  in  the  production  of  a  poem,  more  ambi- 
tious in  design  and  larger  in  scope  than  anything  he  had 
heretofore  attempted.  His  earlier  writings,  indeed,  had 
been  chiefly  lyrical  in  character,  and  had  been  rather 
indicative  of  poetical  moods  and  temperament  in  the 
author  than  of  those  unmistakable  gifts  of  seeing,  feeling, 
and  creating  that  belong  to  poets  by  divine  right.  He 
had  made  good  his  claims  to  be  ranked  among  the  aris- 


242  DUST. 

tocracy  of  genius — possibly  among  those  whose  place  is 
near  the  throne  ;  but  he  had  as  yet  put  forward  no  seri- 
ous pretensions  to  wear  the  royal  crown  on  his  own 
brows.  The  present  work,  which  bore  the  title  of 
IDUNA,  seems  to  have  been  a  semi-mystical  composition, 
cast  in  a  more  or  less  dramatic  form,  and  aiming  to  por- 
tray the  conflict  which  is  to  some  extent  going  on  in 
every  human  heart,  between  the  love  that  consults  and 
indulges  selfish  interests  or  impulses,  and  that  nobler 
and  purer  love  which  strikes  through  the  mortal  and 
temporary  symbol  to  the  divine  and  eternal  reality.  To 
illustrate  this  theme,  Philip  had  imagined  a  wild,  sea- 
beaten  kingdom,  situated  somewhere  in  the  unexplored 
ocean  of  time  ;  a  rocky  vision  of  a  royal  castle,  and  living 
there  a  warrior-king,  grim,  whose  beard  drifts  like  the 
snow  blown  from  a  mountain-top  across  the  sky.  To 
him  was  born  Iduna,  glorious  in  beauty,  untamable  in 
spirit,  dowered  from  her  infancy  with  mysterious  and 
half-supernatural  gifts.  For  once,  when  little  more  than 
a  baby,  she  had  wandered  alone  from  the  castle,  and 
down  to  the  misty  reaches  of  the  wave-beaten  shore. 
What  happened  to  her  there  was  never  known ;  but 
round  her  neck  was  hung  a  broad  necklace,  wrought 
with  more  than  human  skill  of  workmanship,  of  un- 
known shells  and  precious  stones  and  links  of  virgin  gold. 
The  necklace  was  endowed  with  talismanic  attributes, 
conferring  on  the  grim  king's  daughter  miraculous 
powers  and  the  lustre  of  a  goddess ;  and  it  was  whis- 
pered among  the  people  that  it  was  the  gift  of  some 
mighty  spirit  of  the  sea,  some  ocean  demi-god,  who  had 
met  the  little  princess  on  the  shore,  and  who, -  if  she  re- 
mained true  to  the  sublimity  of  her  fate,  would  one  day 
claim  her  for  his  bride.  But  woe  to  her  should  the  magic 
necklace  be  lost  or  yielded  up  !  At  these  foolish  fancies 
the  grim  king  laughed  and  tossed  his  beard ;  but,  as 
Iduna  grew  in  stature  and  in  the  splendor  of  her  beauty, 


DUST.  248 

men  said  that  for  such  as  she  no  merely  human  destiny 
was  meet ;  and  when,  at  certain  seasons,  the  sea  thun- 
dered more  resoundingly  along  the  coast,  and  the 
wreaths  of  foam  were  swept  by  the  fierce  breeze  past  the 
castle  battlements,  Iduna  would  mount  her  horse  and 
ride  forth,  as  if  she  heard  the  voice  of  her  god-like  lover 
calling  to  her  in  the  gale,  and  saw  his  form  moving  to- 
wards her  over  the  tumultuous  crests  of  the  ocean  bil- 
lows ;  though  to  other  eyes  than  hers  he  would  appear 
but  as  a  pillar  of  gleaming  mist,  a  stately  phantom  of 
the  storm,  half  seen,  half  imagined.  At  these  supersti- 
tions the  grim  king  frowned,  and  swore  by  his  beard  that 
the  girl  should  learn — and  that  ere  long — the  sufficient 
worth  of  a  mortal  bridegroom. 

Of  this  earthly  love  ;  of  the  loss  of  the  magic  neck-' 
lace,  and  with  it  the  protection  of  the  sea-god ;  of  Idu- 
na's  imprisonment  in  the  castle ;  of  her  final  recov- 
ery of  her  talisman  by  the  self-sacrificing  agency  of 
the  mortal  lover  whose  happiness  depended  upon  with- 
holding it  from  her  ;  and  of  her  escape  from  the  castle : 
no  more  than  a  hint  can  be  given.  Seaward  she  rode, 
and  the  storm  came  up  to  meet  her.  But  the  tidings 
of  her  flight  came  to  the  king,  and  he  mounted  his 
war-horse  and  thundered  with  all  his  knights  in  pur- 
suit. Wilder  grew  the  storm  ;  the  heavens  were  dark- 
ened, and  seemed  to  stoop  to  the  earth  ;  strange  sounds, 
as  of  the  fierce  mutterings  and  laughter  of  viewless 
spirits,  filled  the  air.  Yet  still  the  grim  king  rode  on, 
and,  filled  with  grisly  forebodings,  his  knights  pressed 
after  him  in  silence.  Then  the  blast  shrieked  madly  in 
their  ears ;  the  earth  rocked  and  shuddered ;  ghastly 
lights  flickered  along  the  blackness  of  the  sky  ;  and  the 
sea,  gathering  itself  together  in  a  thunder-smitten  bat- 
tlement of  toppling  surges,  swept  forward  on  the  land. 
Yet,  ere  it  engulfed  them  forever,  they  saw  by  the  glim- 
mer of  phantom  fires,  the  form  of  Iduna  flying  far  be- 


244  DUST. 

fore  them,  her  black  hair  floating  backward  on  tbe 
hurricane,  and  the  magic  necklace  flashing  round  her 
neck.  And  even  as  the  waters  smote  them,  a  god- 
like apparition  seemed  to  emerge  resplendent  and  se- 
rene from  the  midmost  heart  of  the  tempest :  toward 
him  Iduna  stretched  her  arms,  and  was  folded  to  Ins 
breast. 

When  the  sun  rose  again,  castle  and  kingdom,  knights 
and  king  had  vanished,  and  the  gray  sea  rolled  its  mur- 
muring billows  fathoms  overhead.  But  tradition  tells 
that  in  the  night,  after  the  princess  had  gone  forth,  the 
lover  who  had  liberated  her  to  his  own  dear  cost 
mounted  to  the  topmost  turret  and  gazed  seaward,  and 
as  the  destroying  wave  came  towering  toward  him 
through  the  roar  and  terror  of  the  darkness,  he  saw, 
riding  with  it  on  its  awful  crest,  two  beings  of  superhu- 
man beauty  and  grandeur.  As  they  drew  near  him,  he 
bowed  his  head,  trembling ;  but  his  heart  seemed  to 
hear  a  voice  that  was  like  Iduna's  murmuring  his 
name,  and  her  soft  fingers  touched  his  cheek.  He 
seemed  to  be  gathered  up  out  of  himself,  and  to  move 
beside  her  ;  the  tempest  was  still ;  they  were  together 
and  alone,  and  the  morning  broke. 

Such,  in  bare  prose, -is  the  outline  of  the  poem  to  the 
making  of  which  Philip  had  brought  his  best  talents  and 
energies,  and  on  the  merits  of  which  he  had  been  fain 
to  stake  his  fame.  Being  done,  however,  and  in  the 
printers'  hands,  he  had  lost  heart  about  it ;  felt  that  it 
was  cold  and  inadequate,  and  regretted  that  he  had  not 
been  wise  enough  to  have  kept  it  for  ten  years,  and  then 
destroyed  it.  Accordingly  his  publisher's  summons, 
coming  as  it  did  within  a  fortnight  of  the  time  the  book 
appeared,  failed  to  kindle  in  him  any  pleasurable  anti- 
cipations ;  and  on  his  way  to  the  city  he  pretty  well 
made  up  his  mind  to  abandon  poetry  as  a  profession, 
and  take  to  something  else.  It  was  all  very  well  to 


DUST.  245 

amuse  one's  self  with  such  vanities  while  one  is  a  boy, 
but  now  that  he  was  about  to  take  to  himself  a  wife, 
Philip  felt  that  he  ought  to  adopt  some  more  remu- 
nerative calling.  He  presented  himself  at  the  office, 
with  a  very  grave  face,  about  ten  o'clock. 

The  publisher  bowed,  and  begged  Mr.  Lancaster  to 
be  seated.  "  I  should  have  had  the  honor  to  wait  upon 
you  at  your  own  residence,  sir,"  he  said,  "  but  as  it  was 
desirable  to  have  your  signature  to  some  receipts,  and 
for  other  business  reasons,  I  took  the  liberty — er — well ! 
Now,  Mr.  Lancaster,  I  don't  know  what  your  expecta- 
tions were  ;  it  was  only  natural  that  they  should  have 
been  great ;  so  were  mine ;  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth 
.  .  .  however,  judge  for  yourself."  And  he  handed 
him  a  paper,  on  which  was  a  brief  statement  of  accounts. 
"  We  have  been  on  the  market  only  ten  days  last  Wed- 
nesday," added  the  publisher,  "and  I  call  the  results 
thus  far  fair — fair  I  Sir,  they  deserved  to  be ;  but  I 
doubt  not  we  shall  do  better  yet." 

"  What  is  this  about  ?"  inquired  Philip,  who  had  been 
staring  at  the  paper.  "What  does  this  entry  of  eleven 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  mean  ?" 

"Your  profits  on  the  percentage  as  agreed  upon," 
answered  the  publisher.  "  We  published  at  ten  and  six- 
pence, you  know." 

"Oh  ...  I  see!"  said  Philip,  quietly.  His  heart 
heaved,  and  he  knew  not  whether  he  were  more  likely 
to  burst  into  a  storm  of  tears  or  a  shout  of  laughter. 
"That  seems  to  me  very  good  indeed,"  he  compelled 
himself  to  add.  " Didn't  expect  the  half  of  it." 

"Genius  like  yours,  sir,  may  expect  anything — and 
get  it !"  said  the  publisher  sententiously.  "  There  is  no 
poet  before  you,  Mr.  Lancaster,  to-day — not  one !  Do 
you  care  to  take  the  check  with  you  now,  or  .  .  ." 

"  I  suppose  I  may  as  well,"  said  Philip. 

Some  transactions  were  gone  through  with;  Philip 


246  DUST. 

never  remembered  what  they  were.  At  last  he  found 
himself,  as  if  by  magic,  at  the  door  of  the  house  in  Ham- 
mersmith, with  eleven  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  in  his 
pocket.  He  threw  open  the  door  of  the  sitting-room 
and  strode  in. 

He  had  forgotten  all  about  the  reading  of  the  will. 
There  was  Mr.  Fillmore,  with  the  document  in  his  hand, 
just  reading  out  the  words — "  I  give  and  bequeath  to 
Marion  Lockhart" — arid  there  was  Marion,  with  a  star- 
tled and  troubled  look  in  her  eyes. 


CHAPTEE  XXIV. 

THE  words  which  Philip  had  heard,  and  the  shock  of 
surprise  which  they  gave  him,  combined  with  the  unex- 
pectedness of  the  whole  scene  in  Mrs.  Lockhart's  little 
sitting-room,  rendered  obscure  his  perception  of  what 
immediately  followed.  By-and-by,  however,  two  or  three 
of  the  persons  present  took  their  departure,  and  then 
Philip  found  himself  alone  with  Fillmore,  Mrs.  Lock- 
hart  and  Marion.  The  latter  had  already  received  the 
congratulations  of  the  company,  to  which  she  had  replied 
little  or  nothing. 

"  My  dear  daughter, "  now  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lockhart, 
with  gen  tie  fervor,  "  what  a  splendid  surprise  !  To  think 
I  should  have  lived  to  see  you  a  great  heiress  !  Twenty 
thousand  pounds  did  you  say,  Mr.  Fillmore  ?  To  think 
of  Mr.  Grant's — Mr.  Grantley  's  having  been  so  rich  1 
He  was  so  quiet  and  simple.  What  a  noble  thing  to  do  1 
But  he  was  the  son  of  Tom  Grantley,  you  know,  and 
Lady  Edith  Seabridge  was  his  mother.  And  oh  !  Philip, 
how  happy  you  and  Marion  will  be  now  1" 

"  I  think  we  should  have  been  that  at  any  rate,"  said 
Philip,  smiling  at  Marion,  and  conscious  of  eleven  hun- 
dred pounds  of  his  own  in  his  pocket. 

"  Yes  ;  at  least  as  happy,"  said  Marion,  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  had  not  been  aware,"  observed  Fillmore,  with  a 
slight  bow,  "  that  Mr.  Lancaster  was  to  be  congratulated 
as  well  as  Miss  Lockhart." 

"  You  can  bear  witness  that  I  was  not  a  fortune-hun- 
ter," said  Philip,  laughing.  "When  was  this  will  made, 
Mr.  Fillmore  ?" 

247 


248  DUST. 

"Very  recently,"  he  replied,  mentioning  the  date. 

"  Strange  1"  said  Philip,  musing.  "  He  was  as  sound 
and  healthy  a  man  of  his  age  as  ever  I  saw.  Had  he 
any  premonition  of  death  ?" 

"Apparently  he  had  not,"  the  lawyer  answered. 
"But,  as  you  would  have  learned,  had  you  been  present 
throughout  the  reading  of  the  document,  the  will  pro- 
vided for  the  probable  contingency  of  his  continuing  to 
live.  In  that  case,  Miss  Lockhart  would  have  come  into 
possession  of  ten  thousand  pounds  on  her  next  birthday 
and  the  remainder  of  the  legacy  hereafter.  Mr.  Grantley 
evidently  intended  her  to  reap  the  benefits  of  his  wealth 
without  having  to  wait  for  his  decease." 

"  I  wish  he  had  told  me  !"  murmured  Marion,  folding 
her  hands  on  her  lap  and  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"Madame  Desmoines  was  not  here  ?"  asked  Philip. 

"I have  had  some  correspondence  with  her  on  the 
subject,"  said  Fillmore.  "As  it  happens,  she  was  not 
named  as  a  legatee  in  the  will.  But,  had  it  been  other- 
wise, I  gathered  that  it  was  not  her  purpose  to  accept 
anything." 

"  Why  so  ?"  Philip  asked. 

"  I  was  not  informed ;  but  it  may  be  presumed  that 
the  will  would  have  designated  her  as  the  testator's 
daughter,  and  she  was  perhaps  not  prepared  to  acknowl- 
edge the  relationship." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Fillmore,  do  you  think  Madame  Desmoines 
could  have  any  doubts  of  Mr.  Grantley's  honor  ?"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Lockhart.  "  I  'm  sure  she  has  too  fine  a 
character  herself  to  think  evil  of  others." 

"  I  should  not  explain  her  action  on  that  ground — 
were  I  to  attempt  to  explain  it,"  Fillmore  answered. 
"  The  Marquise  Desmoines  is  not  an  ordinary  woman  : 
she  is  very  far  from  it.  No  direct  proof,  beyond  the  tes- 
tator's confidential  statement  to  certain  persons,  has 
ever  been  advanced  as  to  his  identity  with  the  Charles 


DUST.  249 

Grantley  who  disappeared  a  score  of  years  ago.  Had 
the  Marquise  adopted  that  statement,  it  might  have  in- 
volved inconvenient  or  painful  explanations  with  per- 
sons still  living,  which,  under  the  circumstances,  the 
Marquise  would  have  heen  anxious  to  avoid.  I  mention 
no  names,  and  need  not  do  so.  On  the  other  hand,  she 
is  the  owner  of  a  property  from  her  late  husband  which 
is  in  excess  of  her  ordinary  requirements.  She  desires 
no  addition  to  it,  and  may  have  heen  unwilling  to  seem 
to  interfere  with  the  advantage  of  others." 

"  How  could  that  be  ?"  demanded  Philip.  "  If  Mr. 
Grantley  had  bequeathed  money  to  her,  it  would  have 
made  no  difference  whether  she  acknowledged  him  or  not. " 

"We  cannot  be  certain  of  that,"  the  lawyer  replied. 
"  It  constantly  happens  that  legacies  are,  for  some  rea- 
son or  other,  refused,  or  become  in  some  manner  inope- 
rative ;  and  in  such  cases  there  is  generally  an  alterna- 
tive— sometimes  more  than  one  —  provided  in  codicils. 
There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  Mr.  Grantley  would 
have  failed  to  foresee  such  a  contingency,  and  to  provide 
against  it ;  especially  in  view  of  the  somewhat  excep- 
tional position  that  he  was  conscious  of  occupying. " 

"  That  is  to  say,  if  he  had  left  his  money  to  Madame 
Desmoines,  and  she  had  refused  it,  you  think  he  would 
have  provided  beforehand  that  it  should  go  to  somebody 
else  ?"  said  Philip. 

"I  think  we  have  no  reason  to  suppose  otherwise," 
returned  the  other,  with  the  lawyer's  prudence  of  phrase. 
"  And  it  may  have  been  in  order  to  facilitate  her  refusal, 
had  the  alternative  presented  itself,  that  she  acted  in 
anticipation." 

"  I  was  sure  she  would  do  what  she  considered  right," 
said  Mrs.  Lockhart,  who  had  not  in  the  least  compre- 
hended Fillmore's  analysis,  but  had  inferred  from  his 
tone  and  manner  that  he  was  in  some  way  defending 
Perdita  from  an  aspersion. 


250  DUST. 

"  She  possesses  many  qualities  not  commonly  found  in 
women,"  remarked  Fillmore,  looking  down  at  his  hands 
meditatively.  After  a  little  he  rose,  as  for  departure. 
Philip  was  just  then  saying  something  to  Mrs.  Lock- 
hart  ;  and  as  Marion  also  rose,  she  and  the  lawyer  were 
for  a  moment  by  themselves. 

"Mr.  Fillmore,"  she  said,  coloring  as  she  spoke,  and 
lowering  her  voice  as  if  she  intended  her  words  for  him 
only,  "  didn't  you  say  that  legatees  often  refused  their 
legacies?" 

"All  sorts  of  strange  things  occur,  in  law  as  well  as 
elsewhere,  Miss  Lockhart." 

"  Why  should  any  one  refuse  a  legacy  ?" 

"For  no  very  wise  reason,  perhaps,"  said  he,  smiling 
slightly.  "From  what  are  called  conscientious  mo- 
tives, sometimes ;  or  quite  as  often  from  enmity,  or 
whim,  or  ...  But  I  dare  say  you  can  imagine  as 
many  reasons  as  I." 

"Yes,"  said  Marion  absently;  and  then  she  added, 
"so  that  is  why  codicils  are  put  in  wills  ?" 

"  Such  provisions  are  sometimes  inserted  in  codicils," 
said  Fillmore,  after  one  of  his  characteristic  pauses,  and 
a  fixed  glance  at  Marion. 

"  Are  there  any  codicils  in  Mr.  Grantley's  will  ?"  was 
her  next  question. 

"A  codicil,  inserted  to  provide  against  the  miscar- 
riage of  something  in  the  body  of  the  will,  remains,  of 
course,  inoperative  and  therefore  practically  non-exist- 
ent, if  the  miscarriage  in  question  does  not  occur,"  re- 
plied he  carelessly.  Before  she  could  answer  he  added, 
"  I  have  over-stayed  my  time.  Farewell,  for  the  present, 
Miss  Lockhart ;  I  trust  you  may  long  enjoy  the  means  of 
happiness  and  variety  afforded  you.  Mrs.  Lockhart,  I 
wish  you  good-day ;  Mr.  Lancaster,  your  obedient  ser- 
vant." 

"I  suppose  this  business  won't  be  settled  for  some 


DUST.  251 

time  to  come,"  observed  Marion,  following  him  to  the 
door.  "  I  suppose  I  should  have  an  opportunity  of  com- 
municating with  you  beforehand,  if  I  would  wish  it  ?" 

"I  shall  always  be  at  your  disposal,"  returned  Fill- 
more,  bowing,  and  declining  Mrs.  Lockhart's  invitation 
to  remain  to  dinner,  he  left  the  house  without  further 
parley. 

"Oh,  my  dear  daughter,"  cried  Mrs.  Lockhart,  in  her 
overflowing  way,  when  the  three  were  again  alone, 
"  what  do  you  think  ?  Philip  has.  his  news,  too ;  he  is 
an  heir,  if  you  are  an  heiress ;  all  our  good  fortune 
comes  at  once  !" 

"You,  too?  How?"  said  Marion,  appearing  to  be 
much  moved,  and  turning  upon  Philip  with  a  face  full 
of  a  sort  of  serious  excitement. 

"  Not  much  in  comparison  with  yours  ;  we  shall  never 
be  equals  in  that  respect,  I'm  afraid,"  returned  Philip, 
smiling.  "  But  that  poem  of  mine,  which  I  wouldn't 
let  you  read,  because  I  didn't  think  it  good  enough  for 
you,  seems  to  have  been  good  enough  for  other  people. 
My  publisher  has  sold  enough  of  it,  at  last  accounts,  to 
bring  me  in  more  than  a  thousand  pounds  of  profit.  If 
it  would  only  go  on  at  that  rate,  I  should  do  very  well." 

Marion  looked  deeply  delighted,  and  at  the  same  time 
agitated.  "  Huzza  I  Philip,  I  knew  you  must  be  a  ge- 
nius!" she  exclaimed.  "Of  course  it  will  go  on — how 
can  you  help  writing  better  and  better.  That  is  much 
better  than  inheriting  other  people's  money,  which  you 
don't  deserve,  and  which  doesn't  really  belong  to  you — 
not  even  so  much  as  to  other  people.  A  thousand  pounds 
in  such  a  short  time !  We  shall  not  need  Mr.  Grant- 
ley's  money  at  all." 

"  Oh,  you  may  find  it  useful  to  buy  your  bonnets  and 
shawls  with,"  said  Philip,  laughing. 

But  Marion  seemed  not  to  hear  him.  She  paced  about 
the  room,  stopping  now  and  then  and  humming  some 


252  DUST. 

air  to  herself;  and,  finally,  she  seated  herself  at  the 
piano  and  began  to  improvise,  striking  melodious  and 
changing  chords,  sometimes  soft  and  tender,  sometimes 
resonant  and  tumultuous.  Philip,  who  was  more  stirred 
and  influenced  by  music  than  by  almost  anything  else, 
especially  by  the  kind  of  irregular  and  mysterious  music 
that  Marion  was  given  to  producing,  sat  near  her,  with 
his  head  on  his  hands,  letting  the  harmonies  sway  and 
kindle  his  thoughts.  When,  at  length,  the  music  ceased, 
and  Philip  raised  his  head,  he  perceived  that  he  and 
she  were  alone  ;  Mrs.  Lockhart  had  gone  out. 

"I  shall  always  be  a  poet,  as  long  as  I  have  you  to 
play  tome,"  said  he.  "Only,  I  shall  never  write  such 
poetry  as  I  think  of  while  you  play." 

"It  does  not  take  much  to  make  two  people  happy, 
does  it  ?"  she  said. 

"  Very  little.  Only  love,  the  rarest  thing  in  the  world ; 
and  music,  the  next  rarest ;  and  a  few  other  trifling 
matters  of  that  sort,"  returned  he,  with  superb  irony. 

"Ah,  my  dear  love,  you  know  what  I  mean.  All  we 
need  to  be  happy  is  each  other,  and  what  we  can  do  for 
each  other.  Nothing  else,  except  something  to  eat  and 
drink,  and  a  room  to  live  in.  I  'm  sure  I  've  been  happier 
in  this  house,  with  you,  and  with  only  money  enough  to 
keep  alive  on,  than  I  ever  was  before,  or  expected  to  be." 

"Well,  I  have  a  theory  about  that,"  said  Philip, 
"  though  I  've  never  worked  it  out.  Love  in  a  cottage 
is  a  good  thing  ;  and  so  is  love  in  a  palace.  But  love  is 
not  always  of  one  quality ;  in  fact,  it  never  is  the  same 
in  any  two  human  beings.  Sometimes  it  is  simple  and 
quiet  and  primitive  ;  and  then  a  cottage  is  the  place  for 
it ;  because,  if  we  are  to  be  at  ease  and  content,  what 
is  outside  of  us  ought  to  correspond  to  what  is  within, 
as  the  body  to  the  spirit.  But  sometimes  love  is  splen- 
did, royal,  full  of  every  kind  of  spiritual  richness  and 
variety,  continually  rising  to  new  heights  of  vision,  plung- 


DUST.  253 

ing  into  new  depths  of  insight,  creating,  increasing, 
living  in  wider  and  wider  spheres  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing. And,  for  such  love  as  that,  a  cottage  is  not  the 
right  environment.  You  must  have  a  palace,  a  fortune, 
splendor  and  power ;  indeed,  nothing  can  be  tco  splen- 
did, or  splendid  enough." 

"  And  could  not  such  a  love  be  happy  without  all  that 
splendor  ?" 

"  Well,  no — according  to  the  theory  !  But,  as  I  said,  I 
haven't  completely  worked  it  out  yet.  There  is  a  certain 
kind  of  happiness,  no  doubt,  in  doing  without  what  you 
know  you  ought  to  have ;  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  few 
or  no  people  ever  get  just  the  surroundings  they  want, 
or  ever  are  or  expect  to  be  entirely  happy ;  and,  per- 
haps, to  be  paradoxical,  they  wouldn't  be  happy  if  they 
were.  Imagination  is  a  great  factor  in  the  account,  and 
hope.  The  material  world  is  too  rigid  and  heavy  ever 
to  obey  the  behests  of  those  two  magicians  ;  and  so  their 
best  work  has  always  been  done  in  cloudland  and  dream- 
land. Perhaps,  in  the  next  world,  nature — this  phan- 
tasmagory  of  earth,  sea  and  sky — will  not  be  fixed  and 
unchangeable  as  here,  but  pliant  and  adaptable  to  one 
thought  and  will :  so  that  the  statue  which  I  see  in  my 
mind  shall  at  once  clothe  itself  in  spiritual  marble  before 
my  eyes ;  and  the  rocky  island,  which  I  imagine  in 
yonder  azure  sea,  shall  straightway  rise  from  the  waves 
in  all  its  tropic  beauty  ;  and  yet,  all  this  be  not  a  dream 
or  a  fancy,  but  a  reality  as  real  and  immortal  as  my  own 
mind — which,  after  all,  is  the  only  reality.  Keality  has 
nothing  to  do  with  fixedness.  Your  lips  of  flesh  and 
blood,  my  beloved  Marion,  are  not  so  real  as  the  kisses 
I  give  them,  or  as  the  love  that  goes  into  the  kisses. 
"Well — what  were  we  talking  about  ?" 

"  About  whether  twenty  thousand  pounds  were  neces- 
sary to  make  us  happy." 

"  Oh,  was  that  it  ?     Then  we  can  take  our  time  ;  for, 


254  DUST. 

as  we  have  got  the  money — at  least,  since  you  've  got 
it — we  can  settle  the  problem  in  the  most  satisfactory  of 
all  wa}rs — by  practical  experiment  I  And  that  will  take 
us  a  lifetime,  at  least." 

"  Then  what  if  we  found  we  had  tried  the  wrong  ex- 
periment, after  all  ?" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  all  discoverers  run  that  risk.  Mean- 
while, seems  to  me,  'tis  better  to  have  the  money  to  lose 
than  to  win." 

"I'm  not  sure  about  that,"  said  Marion.  "Money 
gives  us  power  in  the  world,  but  'tis  only  the  money  we 
earn  that  gives  us  a  right  to  the  power.  Inheriting 
money  is  a  sort  of  robbery.  The  power  we  have  is  not 
our  own — we  have  usurped  it.  It  brings  a  host  of  things 
crowding  about  us — things  to  be  done,  business  to  be  at- 
tended to,  claims  to  be  considered :  things  that  we  do 
not  care  about,  and  that  do  us  no  good  ;  that  prevent  us 
from  feeling  and  thinking  what  we  really  care  about.  If 
one  is  born  rich,  it  may  be  different ;  but  to  become  sud- 
denly rich  without  any  help  of  one's  own  cannot  be 
good,  Philip.  It  must  take  away  more  than  it  gives  ; 
and  what  it  takes  away  must  be  better  than  what  it 
gives." 

"But  some  people  must  be  rich,"  said  Philip.  "Pro- 
vidence has  so  decreed.  And  why  should  it  not  be  just 
as  much  the  will  of  Providence  that  you  should  inherit 
riches  as  that  you  should  be  born  to  them  or  earn  them  ? 
At  all  events,  you  have  got  it,  and  must  make  the  best 
of  it.  Besides,  there  have  been  bigger  fortunes  in  the 
world  than  twenty  thousand  pounds,  as  well  as  people 
who  needed  it  more." 

"  Do  you  love  me  any  better  than  you  did  before  you 
knew  of  this  ?" 

"  Knowing  it  has  not  made  me  love  you  more — if  that 's 
what  you  mean  ;  but  the  longer  I  know  you  the  more  I 
love  you,  so  I  love  you  now  more  than  I  did  an  hour  ago." 


DVST.  253 

"  Should  you  love  me  any  less  if  this  money  turned 
out  to  belong  to  some  one  else  ?" 

"No,  foolish  Marion:  by  this  kiss,  it  wouldn't  make 
an  atom  of  difference." 

"Oh,  Philip,  I  hope  it  is  so,"  said  Marion,  her  bosom 
beginning  to  heave  and  her  voice  to  falter.  "  I  hate  this 
money,  and  have  been  miserable  ever  since  I  had  it  I  It 
does  not  belong  to  me,  and  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
that  I  won't  keep  it." 

"  Not  belong  to  you,  Marion  ?" 

"  It  belongs  to  Perdita ;  she  was  his  daughter.  Why 
should  he  have  come  back  to  England,  unless  because 
he  hoped  to  find  her,  and  to  make  her  rich  and  happy  ? 
What  have  I  do  with  his  fortune  ?  I  loved  him  almost 
like  a  father ;  and  he  used  to  say  I  was  a  daughter  to 
him  ;  but  I  am  not  his  daughter  as  Perdita  is,  and  the 
thought  of  having  what  she  would  have  had  is  hateful  1 
And  it  spoils  my  memory  of  him  :  I  must  think  of  him 
now  as  a  man  who  left  me  a  fortune — not  as  a  dear 
friend  who  gave  me  all  the  treasure  of  his  wisdom  and 
gentleness.  He  should  not  have  done  it ;  he  doubted 
himself  whether  to  do  it,  for  he  said  something  to  me 
once  which  I  did  not  understand  then,  but  now  I  know 
he  was  trying  to  find  out  whether  I  would  consent  to 
such  a  thing.  It  is  all  wrong  ;  and  the  only  thing  to  be 
done  now  is  to  give  it  back." 

"To  whom?"  asked  Philip,  who  was  trying  not  to 
feel  too  much  amazed. 

"  To  Perdita  ;  for  I  know  that,  when  I  refuse  it,  it  will 
go  to  her.  There  is  a  codicil  in  the  will  that  gives  it  to 
her.  I  am  sure  of  it,  Philip,  for  I  spoke  to  Mr.  Fill- 
more,  and  I  could  see  in  his  -face  and  in  the  way  he  spoke 
that  there  is  a  codicil ;  and  the  reason  he  didn't  read  it 
was  that  I  had  not  yet  refused  the  legacy." 

"  But  even  if  there  be  a  codicil,  how  do  you  know  it 
is  in  favor  of  Perdita  ?" 


256  DUST. 

"It  will  turn  out  to  be  so,"  said  Marion,  shutting  her 
lips  and  paling.  She  was  watching  Philip's  face  with 
an  anxiety  that  seemed  to  penetrate  to  his  very  soul ;  it 
was  evidently  of  supreme  importance  to  her  which  side 
his  judgment  turned.  He  felt  it,  and  strove  to  be  calm, 
but  the  silen  strength  of  her  desire  flowed  against  him 
in  a  current  more  nearly  irresistible  than  her  words. 

"Are  you  quite  sure,  Marion,"  he  said,  at  length, 
"  that  you  have  told  me  all  the  reasons  for  your  wishing 
to  do  this  thing  ?" 

Her  cheeks  slowly  reddened  as  she  replied  in  a  whis- 
per, "  I  have  said  all  I  can. " 

Their  eyes  met.  "If  you  don't  quite  trust  me  now," 
said  he,  with  a  smile,  half  grave,  half  humorous,  "per- 
haps you  '11  come  to  it  when  you  've  had  your  way.  My 
darling,  you  may  throw  the  money  into  the  Thames,  as 
far  as  I  'm  concerned.  If  you  wish  to  be  rid  of  it,  'tis 
right  you  should  be.  If  it  were  left  to  me,  I  should 
probably  resign  myself  to  keeping  it ;  as  it  is,  'tis  better 
cut  of  the  way.  I  '11  see  if  I  can't  write  you  a  greater 
fortune  than  that.  Meanwhile,  you  must  kiss  me  !" 

Philip  had  no  cause,  on  that  day  at  least,  to  regret  his 
surrender.  "  You  see,  sir,"  said  Marion  mischievously, 
after  some  such  fathomless  spell  of  happiness  as  only 
lovers  can  feel,  "  if  I  had  kept  the  twenty  thousand 
pounds,  you  could  not  have  had  this  I" 

"  I  may  be  glad  you  had  them  to  refuse,  at  any  rate," 
responded  Philip. 


CHAPTEE  XXY. 

THE  most  natural  sequel  to  a  mutual  understanding, 
such  as  this  between  the  two  lovers,  would  be  that  they 
should  get  married  with  the  least  possible  delay  ;  and, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  that  is  what  happened.  The  legacy 
having  been  handed  back  at  Marion's  instance  and  with 
Philip's  consent,  Marion  would  hardly  be  justified  in 
opposing  any  unreasonable  delay  to  the  personal  claims 
of  so  obedient  a  lover.  It  is  not  every  man,  however 
much  in  love  he  mav  be.  who  will  surrender  twenty 
thousand  pounds  without  a  murmur.  But  Philip,  in 
the  first  place,  was  not  of  a  specially  avaricious  disposi- 
tion ;  and  the  unexpected  success  of  his  poem  had  im- 
pressed him  with  a  belief  in  the  pecuniary  possibilities 
of  a  literary  career,  such  as  rendered  him  comparatively 
indifferent  to  extraneous  resources.  Beyond  this,  how- 
ever, he  had  the  insight  to  discern  that  the  fundamental 
motive  of  Marion's  action  had  not  transpired  in  her 
arguments.  What  really  moved  her  was  some  lurking 
tinge  of  jealousy  with  regard  to  the  past  relations  be- 
tween himself  and  Perdita.  "What  basis  there  may  have 
been  for  such  jealousy,  if  there  were  any  basis  for  it, 
Philip  may  have  known  ;  but  he  had  always  avoided  any 
reference  to  it,  and  he  probably  did  not  care  to  risk  the 
opening  of  the  subject  which  would  be  likely  to  follow 
Marion's  enforced  acceptance  of  the  legacy.  Marion 
would  never  be  happy  under  the  persuasion  that  she  was 
in  possession  of  money  which,  in  the  natural  course  of 
things,  should  have  gone  to  Perdita.  Philip,  therefore, 
257 


258  DUST. 

capitulated  with  less  parley  than  he  might  otherwise 
have  attempted. 

They  were  married  in  the  course  of  three  or  four 
weeks,  and  went  to  spend  their  honeymoon  on  the  Con- 
tinent ;  the  chief  goal  of  their  pilgrimage  being  the  field 
of  Waterloo,  where  Marion  saw  her  father's  grave. 
There  was  no  drawback  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  jour- 
ney ;  it  was  a  period  of  serene  and  profound  happiness 
on  which  it  would  he  pleasant  to  dwell  at  more  length. 
But  happiness  has  few  events,  nor  any  apparent  move- 
ment ;  it  is  like  a  chapter  from  eternity,  which  is  the  in- 
finite development  of  the  present  moment.  Time  loses 
its  semblance  of  reality,  and  the  discovery  that  it  does, 
nevertheless,  continue  to  pass,  comes  as  a  surprise.  The 
time  arrived  when  Mr.  and  Mrs..  Lancaster  were  con- 
strained to  set  their  faces  homeward  :  but  they  did  so 
with  unshadowed  hearts.  Life  had  begun  for  them  with 
the  sweetest  auspices,  and  there  seemed  no  reason  to  an- 
ticipate that  it  would  not  proceed  to  still  brighter  issues. 

The  home  of  the  newly-wedded  couple  was  to  be,  for 
the  present,  in  the  old  house  in  Hammersmith,  which, 
with  some  alterations  in  the  way  of  furniture,  would  be 
commodious  enough,  and  which  was  endeared  by  asso- 
ciation to  Marion  and  her  mother,  and  to  Philip  also,  as 
being  the  place  where  he  had  first  met  his  bride.  It  was 
now  the  "little  season"  in  London  ;  Parliament  was  to 
sit  early,  and  the  town  was  rapidly  filling  up.  The  ex- 
citement of  war  being  over,  every  one  was  set  upon  get- 
ting the  largest  possible  amount  of  excitement  out  of 
society,  and  the  next  few  months  promised  to  be  bril- 
liant ones.  Among  the  literary  celebrities  of  the  day, 
no  man's  reputation  stood  higher  at  this  moment  than 
that  of  Philip  Lancaster.  He  was  mentioned  in  the 
same  breath  with  Byron  and  Shelley,  and  there  were 
not  wanting  persons  who  professed  to  find  in  him  quali- 
ties quite  equal  to  those  of  the  latter  poets.  It  was  ru- 


D'UBT.  259 

mored,  also,  that  his  personal  advantages  were  on  a  par 
with  his  mental  ones ;  that  he  had  married  a  great 
heiress  ;  that  he  was  the  younger  son  of  an  earl ;  that 
his  past  career  had  been  distinguished  hy  many  romantic 
and  mysterious  episodes,  involving  the  reputation  of  more 
than  a  few  personages  of  rank  both  in  England  and  on  the 
Continent ;  together  with  a  score  of  other  reports,  true, 
half  true  and  untrue,  such  as  invariably  herald  the  ap- 
pearance in  a  prominent  position  of  any  one  whom  no- 
body ever  heard  of  before. 

It  was  the  custom  at  this  period  for  men  and  women 
who  happened  to  have  achieved  distinction  either  by 
their  brains  or  by  some  equally  uncommon  means,  to  be 
invited  to  social  entertainments  at  the  house  of  Lady 
Flanders.  To  be  seen  there  conferred  the  insignia  of  a 
kind  of  nobility  which  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  peer- 
age, but  which  was,  perhaps,  scarcely  the  less  valued  by 
the  recipients  of  it.  Accordingly  it  was  not  without 
satisfaction  that  Philip,  a  few  days  after  his  return  to 
Hammersmith,  received  a  communication  from  her  lady- 
ship, conveying  her  compliments,  and  an  urgent  desire 
to  have  the  honor  of  welcoming  the  author  of  "  Iduna" 
at  her  abode  on  the  following  Wednesday  evening,  at 
seven  o'clock.  Mrs.  Lancaster  was  included  in  the  in- 
vitation (not  an  invariable  corollary  in  similar  cases) ; 
and,  indeed,  her  ladyship's  carriage  had  left  cards  the 
day  before  Philip's  return  from  abroad,  as  Mrs.  Lock- 
hart  testified. 

Of  course,  they  could  have  no  hesitation  in  availing 
themselves  of  this  first  social  recognition,  in  the  capital 
of  the  world,  of  Philip's  genius  ;  and  Marion  prepared 
herself  for  the  occasion  with  a  sentiment  of  wifely  pride, 
at  the  thought  that  the  world  should  so  soon  confirm 
that  opinion  of  her  husband,  which  she  herself  had 
more  or  less  avowedly  entertained  ever  since  the  first 
moment  she  beheld  him.  The  young  people  attired 


260  DUST. 

themselves  in  a  manner  which  would  excite  less  remark 
in  the  present  day  than  it  might  have  done  ten  or  twenty 
years  ago,  but  which,  at  all  events,  at  the  period  we 
write  of,  was  altogether  in  the  mode.  Shortly  before 
the  carriage  was  announced,  Marion,  being  ready,  went 
down  stairs,  and  saw  lying  on  the  hall  table  a  letter  ad- 
dressed to  Philip  Lancaster,  Esquire,  in  Mr.  Fillmore's 
handwriting.  Now  Marion  had  a  day  or  two  before 
written  to  Fillmore,  inquiring  whether  there  were  any 
formalities  to  be  observed  in  relation  to  her  rejection  of 
the  legacy  ;  and  she  took  it  for  granted  that  this  letter, 
although  addressed  to  her  husband,  was  the  answer  to 
her  question.  She  and  Philip  had  not  as  yet  had  occa- 
sion to  come  to  any  understanding  as  to  their  liberty  to 
open  each  other's  letters ;  and,  though  Marion  would 
probably,  in  an  ordinary  case,  have  let  the  letter  alone, 
in  this  instance  she  had  no  hesitation  in  appropriating  it. 
But  at  this  juncture  Mrs.  Lockhart  came  into  the  hall 
and  detected  something  about  Marion's  dress  that  needed 
readjustment.  Marion  put  the  letter  in  her  pocket  and 
forgot  all  about  it. 

They  arrived  safely  at  their  destination,  and  were 
ushered  into  the  presence  of  their  hostess,  an  immensely 
tall  old  lady,  with  a  turban,  overhanging  eyebrows  and 
a  prominent  chin.  She  was  of  noble  descent,  and  was 
now  recognized  as  among  the  most  eminent  encouragers 
of  literature  and  the  liberal  arts  ;  but  there  were  terri- 
ble stories  told  about  her  youth,  when  she  was  said  to 
have  traveled  in  Europe  in  male  attire,  to  have  fought 
a  duel  and  killed  her  man,  and  to  have  lived  several 
years  in  some  part  of  Asia  under  circumstances  known 
only  to  herself.  At  this  stage  of  her  career,  however, 
she  was  a  great  card-player,  sternly  religious  in  the  way 
of  forms  and  etiquette,  and  reputed  to  have  one  of  the 
wittiest  and  sharpest  tongues  in  London.  To  Philip  she 
contented  herself  with  saying:  "Young  gentleman,  I 


DUST.  261 

used  to  know  your  grand-uncle.  He  was  not  so  hand- 
some a  man  as  you.  'Tis  a  dangerous  thing,  sir,  to  be 
handsome  and  to  write  poetry.  People  who  see  you  will 
expect  your  poetry  to  be  as  well  as  you  are,  and,  if  they 
find  it  is  not,  they  '11  call  you  both  humbugs.  I  haven't 
read  your  poem,  Mr.  Lancaster,  but  now  that  I  have 
seen  you  I  mean  to,  and  then  I  shall  tell  you  just  what 
I  think  of  it  I  Mrs.  Lancaster,  I  like  you  better  than 
your  husband ;  he  's  not  good  enough  for  you,  though 
he  '11  try  and  make  you  believe  the  contrary.  Never 
let  him  print  anything  that  you  don't  like — else  he  '11 
make  a  failure.  There  —  run  along  now  and  enjoy 
yourselves,  and  you  may  come  here  again  as  often  as 
you  like." 

The  rooms  were  full  of  people,  many  of  whom  one 
would  be  glad  enough  to  see  now-a-days,  after  seventy 
years'  vicarious  acquaintance  with  them,  through  books 
and  tradition.  There  is  no  need  of  naming  them  here, 
nor  were  their  appearance  and  casual  conversation  (tem- 
porary costumes  and  customs  aside)  any  more  remark- 
able than  would  be  the  case  in  a  similar  gathering  in 
the  London  of  our  times.  Philip,  indeed,  was  quite  as 
well  worth  noticing  as  any  other  person  there ;  and  he 
certainly  was  noticed  to  the  full  extent  of  his  deserts. 
There  were  murmurs  on  every  side  of  "  That 's  he  I" — 
"Which?" — "There — tall,  short  curling  hair  and  white 
forehead." — "What  splendid  eyes!" — "Oh,  did  he  write 
'Iduna'?" — "Yes,  madam:  looks  like  his  own  hero, 
doesn't  he  ?"— "  Is  he  married  ?"— "No."— "  Yes,  I  as- 
sure you:  two  hundred  thousand  pounds  and  a  beauty." 
— "  Is  she  like '  Iduna '  ?"— "  She  's  sixty  and  a  fright  I" 
— "Have  you  read  the  poem?" — "Yes — very  pretty: 
vastly  entertaining,  indeed." — "Here  he  conies!"  — 
"Oh,  pray  introduce  me!"  Amidst  such  comments 
and  exclamations  the  poet  of  the  hour  found  himself 
adrift,  with  a  tolerably  calm  and  impassive  exterior, 


262  DUST. 

and  within,  a  voice,  half  sad,  half  comical,  repeating, 
"This  is  fame!" 

Meanwhile,  Marion  had  heen  deployed  in  another  di- 
rection, her  heart  and  thoughts  remaining  with  Philip  ; 
and  in  this  condition  she  was  able  to  pay  but  imperfect 
attention  to  the  curly-haired  and  bright-eyed  little  gen- 
tleman who  had  just  been  presented  to  her,  and  whose 
name  she  had  not  caught.  He  spoke  with  a  slight  Irish 
brogue,  and  there  was  a  kind  of  vivacious  sentimen- 
tality in  the  tone  of  his  remarks,  which  had  a  tendency, 
moreover,  to  become  inconveniently  high-flown  and 
figurative.  At  length,  to  be  rid  of  him,  she  got  him  to 
conduct  her  to  a  chair,  and  then  sent  him  off  to  fetch 
her  a  glass  of  water.  "Who's  that  girl  Tom  was  talk- 
ing to  just  now?"  said  one  man  to  another,  as  she  sat 
alone.  "Don't  know:  nice  fresh  young  creature;  oh, 
let  Tom  alone  for  being  first  in  the  field  with  whatever 's 
going :  and  in  a  week  he  '11  have  put  her  in  the  Irish 
melodies,  and  then  the  next  man  may  take  what  is 
left  I"  This  dialogue  was  so  little  to  Marion's  taste  that 
she  rose  from  her  seat  and  established  herself  under  the 
wing  of  an  elderly  dowager  with  whom  she  happened  to 
have  some  acquaintance ;  and  there,  putting  her  hand 
in  her  pocket  to  find  her  smelling-salts,  she  felt  the  letter 
that  she  had  forgotten :  whereupon  she  drew  it  forth 
and  opened  it,  and  was  actually  absorbed  in  its  contents 
at  the  very  moment  when  the  author  of  "  Lallah  Eookh  " 
was  searching  for  her  everywhere  with  a  glass  of  water 
in  his  hand. 

The  letter  was.  not  long,  but  Marion  found  it  unex- 
pectedly interesting,  insomuch  that  she  read  it  over 
three  or  four  times,  with  a  constantly  expanding  sense 
of  its  importance.  It  was  not  the  answer  to  her  own  let- 
ter, nor  had  it  any  reference  to  that ;  it  was  addressed 
to  Philip  throughout,  and  treated  of  business  which  was 
as  new  as  it  was  surprising.  After  having  considered 


DUST.  263 

the  written  words  from  every  point  of  view,  Marion  sat 
with  the  letter  in  her  lap  and  her  eyes  gazing  at  nothing, 
in  a  state  of  mingled  bewilderment  and  distress.  She 
had  contended  against  destiny,  and  had  seemed  at  first 
to  win  ;  hut  now  her  flank  was  turned,  and  the  day  was 
against  her. 

Through  the  midst  of  her  perplexity  she  presently  be- 
came aware  of  a  dapper  little  figure  standing  before  her 
with  a  glass  of  water  in  its  hand :  she  gazed  at  him 
uncomprehendingly.  Just  then,  however,  another  face, 
which  she  immediately  recognized,  appeared  amidst  the 
crowd,  and  not  only  restored  her  self-possession,  but  set 
all  her  faculties  on  edge.  She  rose  quickly,  and  eluding 
the  astonished  water-carrier,  she  reached  Fillmore's  side 
and  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

"Mr.  Fillmore,  will  you.  please  give  me  your  arm?  I 
have  read  your  letter.  I  wish  to  talk  to  you.  Take  me 
somewhere  where  we  can  be  uninterrupted  for  a  few  min- 
utes." Fillmore  complied  without  asking  any  ques- 
tions, and  without  showing  any  particular  symptoms  of 
surprise. 

Philip,  the  lion  of  the  evening,  was,  in  the  mean- 
time, getting  on  very  agreeably.  After  running  the 
gauntlet  of  numerous  promiscuous  admirers,  who  be- 
sought him  to  tell  them  whether  Iduna  was  drowned, 
whether  the  sea-god  were  real  or  only  a  fancy  of  hers, 
whether  she  married  her  mortal  lover,  and  whether  the 
latter  managed  to  get  safe  off  on  the  wreck  of  the  castle, 
and  much  more  to  the  same  effect — after  he  had  been 
parrying  such  inquiries  as  these,  with  what  ingenuity 
and  good  humor  he  might,  for  some  time,  he  happened 
to  raise  his  eyes,  and  saw  the  eyes  of  Perdita  directed 
upon  him  from  a  little  distance,  with  a  beckoning  ex- 
pression. In  a  few  minutes  he  succeeded  in  placing 
himself,  with  a  feeling  of  genuine  relief,  by  her  side. 
And  indeed  he  had  no  reason  to  be  dissatisfied  with  his 


264  DUST. 

position.  If  there  were,  in  that  assembly,  any  woman 
more  classically  handsome  than  Perdita,  there  was  cer- 
tainly no  one  who  could  compare  with  her  in  brilliance 
and  subtle  attractiveness ;  nor  any  who  knew  so  well 
how  to  say  what  a  man  would  like  to  hear ;  nor  any 
who,  in  the  present  instance,  was  better  disposed  to 
say  it.  She  touched  his  shoulder  lightly  with  her  hand 
as  he  sat  down,  with  an  air  and  smile  as  if  she  were 
conferring  upon  him  a  well-earned  knighthood. 

"This  is  the  hardest  part,  you  know,"  she  said. 
"Men  who  do  great  things  are  always  beset  by  little 
people,  with  their  discordant  little  adulations.  It  is  like 
what  you  see  on  the  stage  ;  when  Kean  or  Kemble  has 
given  a  great  passage,  and  your  ears  are  ringing  with  it, 
there  comes  a  flat  racket  of  hand -clapping.  That  is  the 
world's  applause  I" 

"We  must  take  the  deed  for  the  will,"  said  Philip 
laughing,  "  and  be  glad  to  get  it." 

"And  so  you  wish  me  to  believe,"  pursued  Perdita, 
"that  love  is  a  vision  that  cannot  be  realized  in  this 
world  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  mean  that,"  he  replied  ;  "and 
I  don't  want  to  undertake  the  responsibility  of  my  own 
poetical  morals.  But  love  is  like  life,  perhaps,  never  to 
be  found  by  any  dissection  of  mortal  hearts  or  brains. 
It  is  above  what  can  be  seen  or  touched,  though  that 
may  embody  it.  You  see  I  am  as  great  a  fool  as  any  of 
my  readers.  I  don't  know,  any  more  than  the  young 
lady  I  just  was  talking  with,  whether  Iduna  was  drowned 
or  married.  But  neither  do  I  care." 

"There  is  more  than  one  man  in  every  real  poet," 
remarked  Perdita,  looking  at  him  intently  for  a  moment, 
and  then  looking  down ;  "and  the  one  who  appears  in 
the  flesh  is  not  always,  I  suspect,  the  one  best  worth 
having.  And'yet  he  may  be  worth  breaking  one's  heart 
for.  What  do  you  think  ?" 


DUST.  265 

"I  don't  remember  having  made  any  experiments," 
said  Philip,  rather  awkwardly. 

"Well,  it  is  hardly  worth  remembering,"  she  rejoined 
with  one  of  her  ambiguous  smiles.  "If  we  remembered 
everything  we  should  never  do  anything,  probably  ;  and 
that  may  be  one  reason  why  women  do  so  little.  And 
so  you  are  married,  Philip  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  a  little  reluctant  to  follow  up  this 
turn  of  the  conversation. 

"What  a  delightful  thing  a  true  marriage  must  be," 
she  went  on,  "  especially  when  a  poet  is  the  bridegroom. 
For  he  must  know,  better  than  any  other  man,  what 
woman  to  choose.  You  have  seen  the  world,  my  friend, 
and  studied  the  human  heart ;  and  I  congratulate  you 
on  having  found  the  woman  best  suited  to  make  you 
happy." 

"  I  'm  not  so  difficult  as  you  seem  to  think,"  returned 
Philip ;  "  but  if  I  were  ten  times  more  so  than  I  am,  I 
should  be  more  than  content." 

"I  am  sure  of  that,"  said  Perdita,  smiling  again; 
"if  all  men  were  as  fortunate  as  you,  mon  ami,  the  world 
would  be  the  happier.  Marion  is  a  poet's  wife.  She 
comprehends  you.  She  reverences  your  genius  even  more 
than  you  do,  and  she  will  do  more  than  your  genius  to 
make  you  illustrious.  She  has  the  simplicity  and  the 
unsuspiciousness  that  one  finds  only  in  the  highest  na- 
tures ;  she  will  never  harass  you  with  foolish  doubts  and 
questions  :  she  will  never  do  anything  whimsical  or  arbi- 
trary: she  will  never  make  you  appear  absurd.  She 
makes  me  wish  that  I  were  like  her." 

Perdita  uttered  the  last  sentences  in  a  low  and  serious 
tone.  She  was  looking  her  loveliest ;  fit  to  be  the  con- 
sort of  a  king  or  the  heroine  of  an  epic.  She  was  warm, 
exquisite,  tinted  like  a  flower  and  sparkling  like  the  gems 
upon  her  bosom  ;  she  had  all  the  grace  of  a  woman,  and 
more  than  a  woman's  substance  and  individuality,  and 


266  DUST. 

she  was  telling  Philip  that  she  wished  she  were  like-  his 
wife  !  Philip,  though  not  exactly  destitute  of  vanity  or 
of  liability  to  infatuation,  was  not  readily  to  be  deceived. 
He  was  quite  able  to  believe  that  Perdita  might  be 
making  game  of  him.  And  yet,  hearing  the  tones  of 
her  voice  and  looking  in  her  face,  he  did  not  believe  it. 
Her  words,  indeed,  could  be  taken  with  more  than  one 
signification ;  but  there  must  be  genuineness  in  them 
somewhere.  She  wished  that  she  were  like  Philip's  wife. 
Did  that  mean  that  she  really  considered  Marion's  quali- 
ties of  mind  and  person  were  more  desirable  than  her 
own  ?  Or  did  she  mean  that  there  was  some  cause,  un- 
avowed  but  not  unimaginable,  why  she  should  desire 
them  more  ?  Some  cause  not  unimaginable  :  what  ?  She 
had  just  expressed  her  conviction,  in  tones  unusually 
earnest  for  an  assemblage  like  Lady  Flanders',  that 
Marion's  qualities  were  such  as  must  command  Philip's 
love.  What  then  was  the  significance  of  her  wishing 
they  might  be  hers  ?  It  was  plain  enough ;  indeed  it 
was  its  very  plainness  that  was  the  strongest  obstacle  in 
the  way  of  Philip's  so  understanding  it.  And  yet, 
thorough  as  was  his  love  for  Marion,  he  recognized  too 
clearly  the  wonderful  charms  and  fascinations  of  Per- 
dita to  believe  that  she  could  compare  herself  with  his 
wife  to  her  own  disadvantage.  !N"o  :  what  she  had  said 
was,  at  least,  an  implicit  censure  of  his  blindness  in 
having  preferred  Marion  or  any  other  woman  to  Perdita 
herself. 

It  is  to  Philip's  credit  that  he  did  not  allow  himself  to 
appear  in  the  least  conscious  of  the  unavoidable  infer- 
ence in  the  matter;  but  only  laughed,  and  said  that 
he  had  no  doubt  any  one  would  like  his  wife  better 
than  his  poetry,  if  they  could  be  afforded  the  opportu- 
nity. And  before  anything  else  could  be  said,  who 
should  appear  before  them  but  Marion  herself,  leaning 
on  Merton  Fillmore's  arm,  looking  very  pale,  and  with 


DUST.  267 

a  peculiar  satirical  touch  to  her  expression  which  Philip 
had  not  seen  there  since  the  early  days  of  his  acquaint- 
ance with  her,  and  which  made  him  a  little  uneasy.  As 
for  Fillmore,  his  demeanor  was,  as  usual,  admirably 
composed ;  but  Philip  fancied  that  there  was  something 
in  the  glance  he  bestowed  upon  him  that  seemed  to  say, 
"  Can  a  honeymoon  be  eclipsed  ?" 

uGood  evening,  Madame  Desmoines,"  said  Marion, 
lightly  ;  "  I  hope  I  see  you  well  in  health  ?  Do  you  like 
my  husband?" 

"  His  poetry  has  made  me  rather  disappointed  with 
himself;  but  he  is  all  the  better  for  having  such  a  wife," 
returned  the  Marquise,  with  engaging  courtesy. 

"I  am  only  afraid  of  his  being  too  fortunate  .  .  . 
in  some  things  1"  Marion  said  laughingly  ;  "so,  to  make 
the  balance  even,  I  am  going  to  inflict  on  him  the  mis- 
fortune of  taking  me  home.  That  is,  if  he  will." 

"  That  misfortune  is  the  best  of  all  his  fortunes  this 
evening,"  was  Perdita's  reply;  "and  I  am  enough  his 
friend  to  be  glad  of  it." 

While  these  courtesies  were  passing  between  the 
ladies,  Philip,  who  perceived  that  something  serious 
was  the  matter,  had  risen  and  placed  himself  by  Ma- 
rion's side,  and  they  now  moved  away  together,  while 
Fillmore  appropriated  Philip's  vacated  chair.  When 
the  young  poet  and  his  wife  went  to  make  their  adieux 
to  Lady  Flanders,  her  ladyship  said  to  Marion,  "I  saw 
your  husband  flirting  with  that  little  Marquise.  Don't 
you  let  him  do  it !  She 's  the  most  dangerous  woman  in 
this  room,  and  the  only  one  who  is  cleverer  than  I  am. 
But  I  'm  clever  enough  to  see  through  her,  and  I  hope 
you  are  I" 

And  with  this  benediction  the  young  couple  set  out 
homewards. 


CHAPTEE  XXYL 

THE  drive  back  to  Hammersmith  was  not  a  particu- 
larly agreeable  one.  Philip  began  by  maintaining  a 
grave  silence :  he  felt  his  dignity  somewhat  impaired 
by  the  almost  peremptory  summons  to  come  home  be- 
fore the  party  was  half  over,  without  any  reason  given 
or  time  for  consideration  allowed  ;  and  he  suspected  that 
it  might  be  due  to  some  new  jealousy  on  Marion's  part 
toward  Perdita,  which  made  him  prefer  to  leave  the 
conduct  of  the  conversation  in  her  hands.  Lady  Flan- 
ders' parting  observations  had  been  peculiarly  apt  ft-om 
this  point  of  view,  and  Philip  secretly  owed  her  a  grudge 
for  them ;  the  rather  since,  although  his  own  conscience 
acquitted  him  well  enough  in  the  matter,  there  was  no 
denying  that  Perdita's  language  had  been  open  to  the 
charge  of  ambiguity.  Marion,  however,  could  not  have 
been  aware  of  this,  and  her  suspicions,  if  she  had  any, 
must  have  been  aroused  by  some  communication  from 
a  third  person.  Now  it  was  manifestly  undesirable  that 
any  third  person  should  be  permitted  to  come  between 
husband  and  wife  at  all,  much  more  that  the  interference 
should  have  any  weight  ascribed  to  it,  except  as  an  in- 
terference. Marion  was  in  the  wrong,  therefore,  to 
begin  with,  be  her  own  grievance  what  it  might ;  and 
Philip  deemed  it  incumbent  on  his  self-respect  to  let  her 
bring  forward  her  explanations  without  any  motion  on 
his  side  to  anticipate  them. 

As  for  Marion,  she  was  silent  at  first  from  excitement, 
which,  from  whatever  cause  arising,  always  had  a  per- 
verse or  contradictory  effect  upon  her  demeanor ;  causing 
268 


DUST.  269 

her  to  laugh  at  what  was  serious,  and  to  be  reticent 
when  volubility  would  have  seemed  more  natural.  More- 
over, having  so  much  to  say,  she  did  not  know  what  to 
say  first ;  and  the  matter  in  hand  being,  from  her  point 
of  view,  of  great  importance,  she  desired  to  make  as 
few  mistakes  as  possible,  especially  at  the  beginning. 
She  saw,  too,  that  Philip  was  not  in  an  especially  good 
humor,  and  she  wished  to  mitigate  his  displeasure  be- 
fore unloading  her  heart  to  him.  She  had,  up  to  this 
time,  full  confidence  in  his  love  for  her ;  but  she  was 
conscious  that  what  she  had  to  propose  would  be  some- 
what trying  to  his  generosity ;  and  she  desired  to  start 
with  as  prosperous  a  breeze  as  possible. 

Accordingly,  she  pulled  off  her  glove  within  her  muff 
(which  was  large  enough  to  have  allowed  of  much  more 
extensive  evolutions)  and  slipped  her  warm  hand  into 
Philip's.  He,  however,  had  his  gloves  on,  and  was  not 
expecting  her  demonstration ;  and  between  his  unreadi- 
ness and  his  glove  it  did  not  succeed  very  well.  To 
make  matters  worse,  he  said  : 

"  Didn't  you  bring  your  gloves  with  you,  my  dear  ? 
'Tis  a  very  cold  night." 

"Oh,  yes;  but  I  didn't  feel  cold,"  she  replied  care- 
lessly, returning  her  hand  to  her  muff;  and  then,  feel- 
ing that  this  was  not  a  hopeful  opening,  she  added  :  "It 
was  too  bad  to  take  you  away  so  early,  Philip ;  but  I 
thought  you  wouldn't  mind  when  you  knew." 

Kensington  roads  were  not  so  smoothly  paved  then  as 
tbey  are  now,  and  the  wheels  rattling  over  the  cobble- 
stones prevented  Philip  from  hearing  what  she  said.  He 
said,  "What?"  and  she,  with  a  sense  of  being  rebuffed, 
only  felt  inclined  to  reply,  "You  seemed  to  be  enjoying 
yourself  so  much,  I  was  sorry  to  take  you  away." 

"  The  enjoyment  was  nothing,  one  way  or  the  other," 
he  returned ;  "but  it  seemed  rather  absurd  to  make  so 
sudden  a  retreat — don't  you  think  so  ?" 


270  DUST. 

"  You  would  not  think  it  absurd  if  you  knew  my  rea- 
sons :  I  could  not  help  it,"  said  Marion  quickly. 

"Well,  I  am  ready  to  hear  them,"  rejoined  Philip, 
with  an  air  of  judicial  impartiality. 

Marion  had  some  resentful  reply  on  the  tip  of  her 
tongue,  but  she  checked  herself  in  time.  "  I  think  I 
would  rather  wait  till  we  get  home,"  she  said  at  length. 
"We  cannot  talk  comfortably  in  this  noise." 

Philip  signified  his  assent  to  this  arrangement  by  fold- 
ing his  arms  and  leaning  back  in  his  corner  of  the  car- 
riage ;  and  very  few  words  more  were  exchanged  between 
the  new  husband  and  wife  during  the  rest  of  the  drive  : 
so  that  by  the  time  they  arrived  at  the  house,  both  felt  as 
if  they  had  in  some  intangible  way  been  injured.  But 
Marion  had  the  more  elastic  temper  of  the  two,  and  she 
reminded  herself  that  Philip  had,  after  all,  some  reason 
to  be  out  of  sorts  ;  and  when  she  turned  to  him  at  last, 
in  the  solitude  of  their  room,  it  was  with  a  face  smiling, 
though  pale. 

"Now,  my  Philip,  you  are  going  to  be  astonished  I" 
she  said.  "In  the  first  place,  I  have  been  reading  a 
letter  written  to  you." 

Philip  looked  a  little  blank,  running  through  in  his 
mind  all  the  imaginable  persons  who  might  have  written 
him  letters  which  he  would  not  have  wished  Marion  to 
read;  but  he  almost  immediately  replied,  "Why  didn't 
you  speak  of  it  before  we  left  home  ?" 

"I  put  it  in  my  pocket  and  didn't  read  it  till  after  we 
arrived:  it  was  from  Mr.  Fillmore,  Philip"  (Philip's 
brow  relaxed)  "and  the  reason  I  opened  it  was  that  I 
was  expecting  one  from  him  and  thought  this  was  it. 
But  it  was  not.  It  was  about  something  ...  I  should 
never  have  expected.  I  hope  you  will  think  about  it  as 
I  do.  Oh,  how  happy  I  should  be  then  I" 

"Sit  down,  my  dear,"  said  Philip.  "What  is  the 
matter  ?" 


DUST.  271 

"It  is  about  that  miserable  legacy.  It  seems  to  haunt 
us  like  an  evil  spirit.  What  do  you  think,  love — there 
was  a  codicil  in  the  will,  as  I  said,  and  the  money  is  left 
in  such  a  way  that  if  I  refuse  it,  it  might  come  to  you, 
unless  you  refuse  it  too.  And  I  hope — " 

"  Come  to  me  1"  echoed  Philip  in  amazement.  "  How 
is  that  ?» 

"  It  is  the  wording  of  the  codicil  that  makes  it  so,"  said 
Marion.  '  It  says,  '  To  my  nearest  acknowledged  rela- 
tive,' or  something  of  that  sort,  and  that  might  be  you." 

"It  might  be  I,  if  it  were  not  the  Marquise  Des- 
moines,"  returned  Philip,  with  a  short  laugh.  "You 
forget  her." 

"No,  I  didn't  forget  her;  but  Mr.  Fillmore  says  that 
she  will  not  acknowledge  that  she  is  his  daughter  at  all, 
And  you  are  the  next  nearest  to  her." 

"  I  never  in  my  life  heard  of  twenty  thousand  pounds 
going  begging  in  this  fashion,"  said  Philip,  bringing  his 
hands  down  on  the  arms  of  the  chair.  "  Anybody  would 
think  it  was  poisoned.  So  she  maintains  she  is  not  his 
daughter  ?" 

"It  is  very  strange  of  her  :  there  must  be  some  rea- 
son besides  what  she  says,"  remarked  Marion.  "I  re- 
member when  she  stood  by  the  bed  where  he  was  lying, 
poor  dear,  she  called  him  '  father ;'  and  though  he  could 
not  hear  her,  I  could." 

"Well,  that  is  not  legal  proof,  after  all." 

"But  the  letters  in  the  packet  she  gave  me  to  keep — 
those  would  be  legal." 

"  They  might  or  they  might  not.    There 's  no  telling." 

"  I  will  send  them  to  her,  so  that  it  may  be  known." 

"  No.  She  gave  them  to  you  to  keep  for  her.  You 
cannot  return  them  with  courtesy  until  she  asks  for 
them.  And  'tis  easy  to  understand  why  she  should  wish 
them  to  remain  unread.  If  Mr.  Grantley  was  really  her 
father—" 


272  DUST. 

"  Philip,  do  you  doubt  it  ?'» 

"My  belief  is  that  he  was  everything  that  is  honor- 
able ;  but  what  I  believe  or  not  is  nothing  to  the  pur- 
pose. Of  course,  if  he  was  her  father,  and  an  honest 
man,  it  follows  that  something  must  be  very  wrong  with 
Sir  Francis  Bendibow — " 

"  I  am  sure  of  that  I" 

"  Well,  I  know  nothing  about  it ;  but  what  everybody 
does  know  is  that  Perdita  is  Bendibow's  adopted 
daughter,  and  is  under  a  certain  obligation — " 

"  He  did  not  treat  her  well :  she  says  so  herself." 

"In  society,  Marion,  there  is  a  convention  to  take 
certain  things  for  granted.  The  conventional  supposi- 
tion in  this  case  is  that  she  is  under  obligations  to  Ben- 
dibow. Why  should  she  create  a  scandal  about  a  matter 
that  was  settled,  for  good  or  evil,  a  score  of  years  since  ? 
Who  would  gain  by  Bendibow  's  being  shamed  ?  Those 
letters  either  contain  the  evidence  of  his  shame,  or  they 
do  not ;  and,  in  either  case,  it  is  reasonable  enough  that 
she  should  wish  to  let  them  alone." 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  that  is  her  reason  for  refusing 
this  legacy." 

"  What  in  heaven's  name  can  it  be  then  ?" 

"I  think  she  .  .  .  But  that  is  not  what  I  want  to 
say.  Philip,  do  you  mean  to  take  this  money  ?" 

"If  no  one  contests  my  right  to  it,  I  certainly  shall," 
said  Philip,  with  his  chin  in  his  hand. 

Marion's  heart  beat  hard.  She  had  anticipated  reluc- 
tance on  her  husband's  part,  but  not  opposition  so  de- 
termined as  this.  She  hesitated  what  to  do  next.  That 
Perdita  did  not  really  doubt  Grantley  to  have  been  her 
father,  Marion  was  of  course  convinced.  The  recollec- 
tion of  what  had  passed  on  that  tragic  morning,  when 
the  Marquise  had  called  her  in  to  witness  Bendibow's 
exposure,  and  Marion  herself  had  interposed,  and  with 
difficulty  saved  him,  was  only  too  distinct  in  her  memory. 


DUST.  273 

Perdita  had  believed  then,  and  there  was  no  reason  why 
she  should  doubt  now.  But  on  the  other  hand,  Marion 
herself  was  responsible  for  Perdita's  present  attitude. 
Marion  had  asked  her  not  to  open  the  packet,  and  Per- 
dita— certainly  from  a  generous  motive — had  complied. 
In  the  exaltation  of  that  moment,  the  two  women  had 
kissed  each  other.  Which  had  maintained  the  more 
consistent  course  since  then — Perdita  or  Marion  ?  Logi- 
cally, Perdita.  She  had  agreed,  for  Bendibow's  sake, 
and  at  Marion's  request,  outwardly  to  ignore  the  fact 
that  she  was  Grantley's  daughter :  and  how,  on  that 
understanding,  could  she  act  otherwise  than  she  had 
done  ?  There  was  no  logical  answer  to  this  question ; 
on  the  contrary,  it  was  Marion  who  had  receded  from 
her  position.  And  yet  Marion  could  not  admit  herself 
unjust.  Though  Perdita  had  not  altered  her  course, 
Marion  was  persuaded  that  she  had  changed  her  mo- 
tives in  pursuing  it.  It  was  no  longer  compassion  for 
Sir  Francis  that  swayed  her,  but  designs  upon  Philip. 
It  would  be  impossible  to  describe,  or  even  to  know,  by 
precisely  what  means  Marion  had  arrived  at  this  con- 
clusion. It  is  instinct,  not  reason,  that  warns  a  woman 
when  to  be  jealous  of  another :  and  it  seems  as  if  she 
could  perceive  the  purpose  in  the  other's  heart,  even 
before  it  has  declared  itself  in  any  overt  act.  In  such 
circumstances,  however,  the  injured  woman  can  do 
nothing  but  affirm  her  conviction :  by  the  magnetism 
whereof,  and  by  no  other  means,  can  she  hope  to  influ- 
ence the  man.  But  he  can  always  out-argue  her,  if  he 
chooses. 

Though  she  felt  the  premonition  of  defeat,  therefore, 
Marion  resolved  not  to  give  up  the  contest :  the  spirit 
of  her  father  was  aroused  in  her,  and  she  was  strength- 
ened by  the  thought  that  she  was  fighting  not  only  for 
herself,  but  in  behalf  of  Philip's  higher  self  likewise. 

"  Don't  you  think  there  is  something  more  than  legal 


274  DUST. 

rights  to  be  considered  ?"  she  said  at  last.  ""Would  you 
condescend  to  accept  favors  from  a  woman  like  Madame 
Desmoines  ?" 

"I  know  nothing  of  Madame  Desmoines  that  puts 
her  below  the  level  of  other  people  :  but  there  is  no  favor 
in  the  matter.  She  is  doing  what  pleases  her  best,  with- 
out any  reference  to  me :  and  I  simply  accept  things  as 
they  are." 

"She  means  to  put  you  under  an  obligation  to  her, 
and  to  use  the  power  that  will  give  her.  You  say  you 
can  read  the  human  heart,  Philip :  can't  you  read  so 
easy  a  thing  as  that  ?  That  was  the  reason  I  would  not 
take  the  money ;  and  if  I  would  not,  much  less  should 
you." 

"Was  that  your  reason?  It  was  not  the  one  you 
gave,  if  I  remember  right." 

"  I  believed,  then,  that  you  were  generous  enough  to 
spare  me  the  affront  of  such  an  explanation,"  said  Ma- 
rion haughtily.  "But  after  all,  it  is  more  for  your  sake 
than  mine  ...  it  would  look  better  for  me  to  be 
obliged  to  her,  than  for  you.  And  for  you  to  accept 
what  I  refused  is  as  much  as  to  say  that  you  disap- 
proved what  I  did." 

"Well,  perhaps  I  did.  It  doesn't  follow,  because  I 
let  you  have  your  way,  that  I  thought  you  were  acting 
sensibly.  And  'tis  certainly  no  reason  why  you  should 
force  me  to  make  another  such  sacrifice  on  my  own  ac- 
count. There 's  a  limit  to  everything  1" 

"  It  is  the  same  now  as  it  was  then.  And  if  you  agreed 
from  love  of  me  then,  you  must  love  me  less  now,  since 
you  refuse." 

"This  is  too  absurd,  Marion.  For  some  cause  or 
other,  or  for  no  cause  at  all  rather,  you  are  jealous  of 
Madame  Desmoines.  If  I  were  to  yield  to  you  in  this, 
it  would  be  as  much  as  to  say  that  your  jealousy  had 
some  foundation.  It  has  none,  and  I  won't  do  it.  You 


DUST.  275 

have  no  right  to  say  that  I  don't  love  you.  If  you  were 
generous,  you  would  not  say  it." 

"I  don't  say  that  you  care  more  for  Madame  Des- 
moines  than  you  do  for  me,  Philip  ;  if  I  thought  that,  I 
would  never  trouble  you  again,  in  any  way.  But  I 
know  that  she  cares  for  you,  and  you  might  know  it,, 
too,  if  you  would.  I  saw  her  face  while  she  was  talking 
with  you  at  the  party  to-night.  I  could  tell  what  was 
in  her  mind.  Men  never  seem  to  see  those  things : 
though  they  get  the  benefit  of  them  I" 

"  'Tis  no  use  talking  with  you  till  you  get  your  senses 
back,  Marion :  and  this  is  not  what  we  set  out  to  discuss, 
either." 

Marion  had  something  more  to  say  about  Madame 
Desmoines,  but  she  managed  to  keep  it  back.  She  knew 
that  if  her  temper  got  the  mastery  of  her,  there  would 
be  an  end,  not  only  of  this  discussion,  but  of  many  other 
things  also ;  of  her  love  and,  practically,  of  her  life. 
She  feared  lest  she  might  hate  her  husband ;  and  she 
feared  still  more  lest  she  might  despise  him.  She  re- 
sumed in  a  voice  low  and  shaken  by  the  struggle  of  emo- 
tions in  her  heart. 

"Let  all  the  rest  go;  and  why  should  you  take  this 
money,  Philip  ?  Do  we  need  it  more  than  we  did  yes- 
terday ?  But  for  this  strange  chance,  you  would  never 
have  thought  of  it  again.  We  have  more  than  enough 
already  for  two  years  to  come,  if  we  live  with  any  sort 
of  economy.  Thousands  of  people  marry  every  day  on 
less  money  than  you  have  at  this  moment,  and  without 
your  means  of  making  more,  and  they  succeed  and  are 
happy.  There  is  nothing  that  makes  a  husband  and 
wife  love  each  other  more  than  to  fight  their  way  through 
the  world  together — triumphing  together,  and  suffering 
together  if  need  be  ;  but  to  feel  that  we  are  in  the  least 
dependent  will  drive  us  more  and  more  apart.  Oh,  I 
am  sure  this  money  will  only  be  a  misfortune  and  a 


276  DUST. 

misery  to  us  I  Good  cannot  come  of  it.  And  what  if 
we  are  poor  ?  I  have  been  poor  all  my  life,  and  yet  you 
married  me  I" 

Philip  listened  to  all  this  with  a  secret  feeling  of  relief. 
Marion  had  now  taken  the  ground  Avhere  he  was  strong 
and  she  was  weak.  In  depth  of  passion  and  fire  of 
temper,  he  was  less  than  her  equal ;  and  had  she  carried 
on  her  attack  with  those  weapons,  she  might  have  come 
out  victorious  ;  for  he  was  not  prepared  to  go  such 
lengths  as  she  would  have  gone,  had  she  given  herself 
rein.  But  women  like  Marion  are  seldom  aware  of  their 
own  most  formidable  powers,  and  hence  are  so  often 
worsted  by  those  who  are  really  less  strong,  but  more 
ingenious  and  adaptable  than  they. 

Moreover,  there  was  on  Philip's  side  both  human  na- 
ture (as  moral  frailty  is  called  in  such  connection)  and  a 
good  deal  of  reason.  In  allowing  Marion  her  will  on  the 
previous  occasion,  he  had  stretched  abnegation  to  pretty 
nearly  its  limit  in  his  case  ;  and  had  so  much  the  less  at 
his  disposal  for  the  present  emergency.  If  he  had  per- 
mitted himself  to  grumble  his  fill  in  the  first  instance, 
he  would  not  have  had  so  much  stored  discontent  on 
hand  for  the  second  ;  and  when  he  found  Marion  in  the 
position  of  standing  upon  what  she  had  gained  and  de- 
manding as  much  again,  he  defined  his  objections  as 
follows  : 

"There  ought  to  be  no  question  about  our  love  for 
each  other,  Marion ;  we  settled  that  once  for  all,  before 
we  were  married.  And  your  pride  and  prejudices  are  not 
involved,  since  it  is  to  me  and  not  to  you  that  the  legacy 
is  now  offered.  I  gave  you  leave  to  manage  your  own 
affairs  as  you  judged  best,  and  'tis  only  fair  you  should 
give  the  same  liberty  to  me.  Now,  it  is  quite  plain  that 
Grantley  meant  one  or  other  of  us  to  have  this  money  ; 
and  if  the  wording  of  the  codicil  was  made  to  apply 
also  to  Perdita,  it  was  only  lest  the  money,  in  the  last 


DUST.  277 

resort,  might  not  have  to  be  thrown  into  the  gutter.  If 
I  were  to  take  the  stand  you  wish  me  to,  I  should  only 
be  putting  both  you  and  myself  in  a  childish  and  senti- 
mental light.  Everybody  would  laugh  at  us.  Besides, 
there  is  the  practical  point  of  view.  What  right  have 
we,  in  face  of  all  the  accidents  and  vicissitudes  of  life, 
to  reject  such  a  windfall  ?  I  might  fall  ill  to-morrow,  or 
my  next  poem  might  be  a  failure :  we  shall  probably 
have  children,  and  they  must  be  provided  for  as  well  as 
ourselves.  And  'tis  a  great  thing,  Marion,  for  a  man 
who  aspires  to  be  a  poet,  to  be  put  a  little  above  the 
necessity  of  working  for  daily  bread,  and  living  from 
hand  to  mouth.  Then  again,  'tis  my  right  as  well  as  to 
my  advantage  to  take  a  position  in  society  suitable  to 
the  name  I  bear.  A  fortune,  my  dear,  is  something  real 
and  enduring ;  but  sentimental  scruples  and  prejudices 
pass  away." 

Philip's  mind,  during  this  harangue,  was  less  com- 
fortable than  his  language.  Whatever  reason  might  say, 
he  felt  that  he  was  taking  a  lower  level  than  Marion. 
He  was  too  much  of  a  poet  not  to  be  conscious  of  the 
unloveliness  of  the  cause  he  was  called  on  to  defend. 
And  now,  at  this  last  moment,  there  was  the  germ  of  a 
wish  in  his  heart  that  Marion  might  somehow  have  her 
desire,  and  this  load  of  pelf  tumble  away  from  both  of 
them,  and  be  forgotten. 

But  Marion,  who  had  been  sitting  with  her  face 
averted,  and  her  cheek  leaning  on  her  hand,  now  turned 
toward  him  with  a  look  in  which  pain  mingled  with  a 
curious  smile. 

"Don't  say  any  more,  Philip,"  she  said,  with  a  sort 
of  dreary  lightness.  "  I  would  rather  do  all  you  wish 
than  hear  any  more  reasons.  Everything  shall  be  as 
you  please :  I  am  your  wife,  and  since  you  won't  be 
what  I  want,  I  will  be  what  you  want,  and  there  's  an 
end  of  it  I  It  will  be  easier  for  me,  now  the  pinch  is 


278  DUST. 

over,  and  I  hope  'twill  be  pleasanter  for  you.  It 's  bet- 
ter, I  suppose,  that  we  should  understand  each  other 
now  than  later.  Heigho !  Well,  I'm  sleepy.  To-mor- 
row we  '11  begin  to  be  rich ;  and  let  us  see  who  does  it 
best  1" 


CHAPTER  XXV1L 

THE  Marquise  Desmoines  had,  at  the  end  of  the  sum- 
mer, relinquished  her  abode  in  Bed  Lion  Square  and 
gone  to  live  in  more  luxurious  quarters  further  west. 
Apparently,  her  experiment  of  life  in  London  had 
pleased  her,  and  she  meant  to  have  some  more  of  it. 
She  had  remained  in  town  during  the  greater  part  of 
the  dead  season,  giving  the  house  furnishers  and  deco- 
rators the  benefit  of  her  personal  supervision  and  sug- 
gestions. The  lady  had  a  genius  for  rendering  her 
surroundings  both  comfortable  and  beautiful :  even 
more,  perhaps,  than  for  enjoying  the  beauty  and  com- 
fort when  they  were  at  her  disposal.  She  appreciated 
the  ease  and  ornament  of  life  with  one  side  of  her  na- 
ture ;  but  another  and  dominant  side  of  it  was  always 
craving  action,  employment  and  excitement,  and,  as  a 
means  to  these  ends,  the  companionship  and  collisions 
of  human  beings.  Her  imagination  was  vivid,  and  she 
was  fond  of  giving  it  rein,  though  she  seldom  lost  con- 
trol of  it ;  but  it  led  her  to  form  schemes  and  picture 
forth  situations,  in  mere  wantonness  of  spirit,  which, 
sometimes,  her  sense  of  humor  or  love  of  adventure 
prompted  her  to  realize.  At  the  same  time,  she  was 
very  quick  to  comprehend  the  logic  of  facts,  and  to  dis- 
criminate between  what  could  and  what  could  not  be 
altered.  But  it  was  her  belief  that  one  of  the  most  stub- 
born and  operative  of  facts  is  the  human  will,  especially 
the  will  of  a  woman  like  herself ;  and  upon  this  persua- 
sion much  of  her  career  was  conditioned. 

After  her  house  was  finished,  and  she  established  in 
279 


280  DUST. 

it,  and  before  the  return  from  their  wedding-trip  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Philip  Lancaster,  Perdita  spent  most  of 
her  time  in  retirement  and  apparent  serenity.  She  rode 
on  horseback  a  great  deal,  and  saw  very  little  com- 
pany. Indoors,  she  occupied  herself  ostensibly  in  ar- 
ranging flowers  and  in  music.  Old  Madame  Cabot,  her 
respectable  and  dreary  female  companion,  had  seldom 
known  her  mistress  to  be  so  composed  and  unenterpris- 
ing. All  the  Marquise  seemed  to  want  was  to  be  let  alone : 
she  had  developed  a  novel  passion  for  meditation.  "What 
did  she  meditate  about  ?  To  judge  by  her  countenance, 
of  nothing  very  melancholy.  To  be  sure,  although  no 
one  could  express  more  by  her  countenance  than  the 
Marquise  Desmoines,  it  was  rash  to  make  inferences 
from  it  to  her  mind.  It  might  well  be  that,  had  she 
wished  to  indulge  in  lugubrious  thoughts,  she  was  not 
without  means  of  doing  so.  She  had  been  in  contact 
with  some  tragic  experiences  of  late :  and  her  entrance 
upon  the  estate  of  widowhood  had  placed  her  at  a  turn- 
ing point  in  the  path  of  existence  ;  a  place  where  one 
must  needs  pause,  to  review  what  is  past  and  to  conjec- 
ture or  to  plan  what  may  be  to  come.  Such  periods  are 
seldom  altogether  cheerful  to  those  who  have  passed  the 
flush  of  their  youth.  It  cannot  be  denied,  moreover, 
that  Perdita  had  undergone  an  unusual  moral  stimulus 
at  the  time  when  she  and  Marion  met  over  the  murdered 
body  of  Charles  Grantley  ;  and  that  stimulus  had  been 
followed  by  consequences.  But  did  it  mark  a  permanent 
new  departure?  For  a  character  like  Perdita's  was 
anything  permanent  except  the  conflicting  and  power- 
ful elements  whereof  the  character  itself  was  composed  ? 
Were  evil  and  good  anything  more  to  her  than  different 
ways  of  keeping  alive  the  interest  of  life  ?  "Whoever  is 
virtuous,  whoever  is  wicked  in  this  world,  still  the  bal- 
ance of  wickedness  and  virtue  will  remain  broadly  the 
same.  The  individual  varies,  the  human  race  continues 


DUST.  281 

unaltered.  "We  grow  and  act  as  nature  and  circum- 
stances determine ;  and  sometimes  circumstances  are 
the  stronger,  sometimes  nature. 

There  were  phases  of  Perdita's  inward  existence  with 
which  Madame  Cabot  was  probably  unacquainted.  The 
Marquise  wanted  several  things,  and  would  not  be  at  rest 
until  she  got  them  :  and,  by  that  time,  new  objects  of 
desire  would  arise.  It  may  be  that  she  had  not  denned 
to  herself  exactly  what  she  wanted,  or  that  she  merely 
wanted  to  achieve  a  certain  mental  or  moral  situation 
and  sensation,  and  was  indifferent  by  what  methods  she 
achieved  it.  The  truth  is,  a  woman  like  Perdita  is  as 
dangerous  as  fire — resembles  fire  in  her  capacities  both 
for  benefit  and  mischief.  And  if  Madame  Cabot  could 
have  beheld  her  at  certain  times,  in  the  solitude  of  her 
room,  pacing  up  and  down  the  floor,  with  her  hands  be- 
hind her  back  ;  or  cutting  a  sheet  of  paper  into  shreds 
with  a  sharp  pair  of  scissors  ;  or  lying  at  full  length  upon 
the  cushions  of  a  lounge,  with  her  hands  clasped  behind 
her  head,  her  white  throat  exposed,  and  her  dark  eyes 
roving  restlessly  hither  and  thither  ;  or  springing  up  to 
examine  herself  minutely  in  the  looking-glass  ;  or  talk- 
ing to  herself  in  a  low,  rapid  tone,  with  interspersed 
smiles  and  frowns  ; — if  Madame  Cabot  could  have  seen 
all  this,  she  might  have  doubted  whether,  after  all,  the 
Marquise  was  going  to  settle  down  into  an  uneventful, 
humdrum  existence. 

The  party  at  Lady  Flanders'  was  Perdita's  first  pro- 
minent appearance  in  London  society,  and  it  seemed 
also  to  introduce  a  change  in  her  mood.  She  was  now 
less  inclined  to  shut  herself  up  alone,  more  talkative  and 
vivacious  than  she  had  latterly  been.  She  kept  Ma- 
dame Cabot  in  constant  employment,  though  about  no- 
thing in  particular,  and  addressed  to  her  all  manner 
of  remarks  and  inquiries,  of  many  of  which  the  dreary 
old  lady  could  not  divine  the  drift,  and  almost  fancied, 


282  DUST. 

at  times,  that  the  Marquise  must  imagine  her  to  be 
some  one  else ;  especially  as  Perdita  had  more  than  once 
exclaimed,  "But  after  all  you  are  not  a  man!"  One 
afternoon,  when  Perdita  had  heen  in  exceptionally  good 
spirits,  the  servant  announced  Mr.  Merton  Fillmore. 

"Mr.  Fillmore?"  she  repeated.  "Well,  ...  let 
him  be  admitted." 

He  had  already  called  upon  her  several  times,  always 
with  more  or  less  reference  to  business  matters,  and 
there  was  a  fair  degree  of  familiarity  between  them. 
Perdita  had  not  been  insensible  to  the  keenness  and  vi- 
rility of  his  mind  and  the  cultivation  of  his  taste ;  and 
for  this  and  other  reasons  she  was  disposed  to  have  a 
liking  for  him.  As  he  entered  the  room  she  rose  to  re- 
ceive him,  with  a  smile  that  might  have  conferred  dis- 
tinction on  a  night-watchman.  Fillmore,  on  his  part, 
seemed  also  in  a  very  genial  frame  of  mind,  and  they 
began  to  chat  together  most  pleasantly. 

"Now,  I  hope  you  have  not  come  about  any  busi- 
ness," said  the  Marquise,  after  they  had  touched  upon 
Lady  Flanders  and  kindred  topics. 

"  You  are  not  in  a  business  humor  ?" 

"  I  don't  like  business  to  be  my  rival." 

"  Do  you  regard  as  a  rival  the  key  that  opens  the  door 
to  you  ?" 

"  Sir,  I  disapprove  of  keys  altogether.  If  my  door  is 
closed,  no  key  can  open  it ;  and  if  it  is  open  ..." 
She  made  a  gesture  with  her  hand. 

"I  shall  take  you  at  your  word,  "said  Fillmore  quietly, 
after  he  had  looked  at  her  for  a  moment.  There  was 
something  in  his  tone  that  conveyed  more  than  any 
amount  of  conventional  thanks  and  compliments.  "As 
for  business,"  he  continued,  "you  have  already  put  that 
away  from  you  by  force  and  violence." 

Perdita  laughed.  "  I  have  behaved  like  a  fool,  haven't 
I?" 


LUST.  283 

"That  is  what  people  would  say." 

**  What  do  you  say  ?" 

"I  think  you  were  wise." 

"Not  even  generous  ?" 

"  To  be  generous,  one  must  sacrifice  something." 

"Well?" 

"  It  is  true  you  have  sacrificed  your  curiosity." 

Perdita  laughed  again.  "  And  that  is  wise  rather  than 
generous,  you  think  ?  But  my  curiosity  might  come  to 
life  again  some  day.  By  the  way,  have  you  any  news  of 
Sir  Francis  ?" 

"People  say  of  him  that  'he  will  never  be  himself 
again.'  Perhaps  that  would  not  be  a  very  hard  saying 
for  the  best  of  us.  But  Bendibow  is  certainly  suffering. 
He  looks  old  and  haggard,  and  his  mind  seems  out  of 
poise.  He  is  living  at  his  Twickenham  place  :  I  have 
seen  him  only  twice.  'Tis  impossible  to  lift  him  out  of 
his  mood  :  you  cannot  fix  his  attention.  I  wished  to 
make  him  agree  to  the  appointment  of  some  capable 
man  to  take  charge  of  the  bank,  but  he  would  listen  to 
nothing.  The  servants  say  he  is  constantly  muttering 
to  himself,  when  he  fancies  he  is  alone." 

"  Can  Sir  Francis  Bendibow  go  mad  because  his  son 
is  dead  ?"  interrupted  Perdita,  leaning  back  on  the  sofa 
and  looking  at  Fillmore  with  eyes  half  closed. 

"He  was  very  fond  of  the  boy,"  replied  Fillmore, 
after  a  pause :  "  and  possibly  the  circumstances  may 
have  been  more  disturbing  than  is  generally  supposed. 
'Tis  said  that  he  manifests  some  peculiarities — "  he 
checked  himself. 

"Go  on  I"  said  Perdita.  "My  imagination  is  worse 
than  my  curiosity." 

"  He  disappears,  for  several  hours  at  a  time,  generally 
after  dark,  without  mentioning  where  he  is  going." 

"So  you  consider  me  wise  in  not  sending  for  the 
packet,  and  opening  it  ?" 


284  DUST. 

"  Why  should  you  ?" 

"  If  I  should,  some  time,  would  you  advise  me  ?" 

"  I  would  rather  not." 

"By-the-way,  talking  of  the  packet,  how  are  our 
friends  the  Lancasters  getting  on  ?" 

"Rather  brilliantly,  I  should  judge.  Mrs.  Lancaster, 
especially,  seems  to  accept  her  changed  circumstances 
very  cordially.  " 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Perdita,  manifesting  in- 
terest. "  She  was  reluctant  enough  at  first." 

"She  has  a  singular  character;  not  easy  to  fathom. 
Mr.  Grantley  probably  understood  her  better  than  most 
people.  She  may  have  been  unwilling  that  her  husband 
should  appear  to  be  dependent  on  her.  At  all  events, 
they  are  making  preparations  for  a  fashionable  appear- 
ance in  society :  Lancaster's  success  is  assured  already  ; 
and  for  aught  I  know,  his  wife  may  have  it  in  her  to 
make  an  even  greater  success  than  he." 

"  What  are  they  doing  ?" 

"  I  understand  they  have  rented  a  house  in  a  desirable 
quarter  ;  some  additions  are  to  be  built  to  it,  and  altera- 
tions made  ;  and  then  it  will  be  furnished  as  taste  and 
Providence  may  permit.  Meanwhile,  as  of  course  you 
are  aware,  '  Iduna  '  continues  to  sell  new  editions,  and 
all  the  omens  are  propitious." 

"  What  do  you  think  of '  Iduna '?"  asked  Perdita  care- 
lessly. 

"It  is  strong— too  strong,  I  should  fancy,  for  a  bride- 
groom." 

"  More  knowledge  of  love  than  a  bachelor  had  a  right 
to  have — is  that  what  you  mean?"  inquired  Perdita, 
arching  her  brows. 

"  There  is  such  a  thing  as  understanding  a  passion  too 
clearly  to  feel  it,"  Fillmore  answered.  "You  may  take 
up  a  matter  either  intellectually  or  emotionally,  but  you 
will  seldom  be  equally  strong  in  both  directions." 


DUST.  285 

"  But  the  pleasure  of  emotion  is  only  in  feeling.  It  is 
blind.  Intellect  is  sight.  Sight  often  makes  sensation 
more  pleasurable." 

"  A  man  who  is  in  love,  madame,  wishes  to  do  some- 
thing more  than  to  enjoy  his  own  sensations  ;  he  wishes 
to  have  them  shared  by  the  lady  of  his  choice.  To  insure 
that  he  must,  at  least,  love  with  all  his  strength.  And,  as 
a  matter  of  experience,  there  is  little  evidence  to  show 
that  the  best  poets  of  love  have  also  been  the  best  lovers. 
They  filter  their  hearts  through  their  heads,  so  to  speak ; 
they  imagine  more  than  they  can  personally  realize. 
There  is  Byron,  for  instance — " 

"  Yes  ;  I  saw  him  in  Italy  :  he  is  an  actor,  who  always 
plays  one  role — Byron !  But  he  is  not  like  others.  A 
poet  of  love  ...  if  he  is  not  a  good  lover,  it  may  be 
because  he  never  happens  to  meet  a  woman  lovable 
enough.  But  when  he  does  meet  her  ...  it  would 
be  heaven  for  them  both  !"  The  Marquise  seldom  spoke 
with  so  much  fervor  and  earnestness. 

Fillmore  looked  at  her  intently,  and  his  ordinarily  un- 
impassioned  face  slowly  reddened.  He  pressed  one 
clenched  hand  strongly  into  the  palm  of  the  other. 

"I  have  one  argument,"  he  said,  "to  prove  that 
poets  are  not  the  best  lovers." 

"  Arguments  don't  always  convince  me.    What  is  it  ?" 

" I  am  no  poet  myself." 

"  Is  that  your  argument  ?"  demanded  Perdita  after  a 
moment. 

"Yes." 

"  How  would  you  apply  it  ?" 

Fillmore,  for  once,  hesitated.  A  great  deal  depended, 
for  him,  on  what  he  might  say  next.  Perdita  was  look- 
ing extremely  lovely,  yet  she  had  not  precisely  the  kind 
of  expression  that  he  would  have  wished  her  to  have  at 
this  moment.  But  the  man  had  made  up  his  mind, 
long  ago,  as  to  what  he  intended  to  do,  and  he  reflected 
that  the  mood  of  the  moment  would  not  make  much 


286  DUST. 

difference  in  the  long  run.  Success  in  his  project  was 
either  possible,  or  it  was  not :  but  at  all  events,  a  tem- 
porary rebuff,  should  that  happen,  was  not  going  to  dis- 
courage him.  So  he  manned  himself,  and  said,  quietly 
and  firmly : 

"Though  I  am  no  poet,  no  poet  could  love  you  more 
than  I  do." 

Perdita  was  perfectly  still  for  a  moment ;  not  a  nerve 
vibrated.  She  was  instantly  aware  that  she  would  on 
no  account  accept  Fillmore's  offer ;  but  it  had  been  en- 
tirely unexpected,  and  she  wished  to  give  the  surprise 
an  opportunity  to  define  its  quality.  It  seemed  to  her 
not  altogether  disagreeable,  simply  as  a  betrayal  of 
Fillmore's  state  of  mind  toward  her.  She  was  pleased 
to  have  won  the  love  of  a  man  of  his  calibre ;  and  she 
had  the  good  sense,  or  discernment,  to  perceive  that  he 
loved  her  for  herself,  and  not  for  any  extrinsic  advan- 
tage that  the  possession  of  her  might  afford  him.  She 
also  saw  that  he  was  intensely  in  earnest.  A  less  self- 
confident  and  victorious  woman  might  have  felt  some 
consternation  at  the  prospect  of  conflict  which  the  situ- 
ation contained  :  but  Perdita,  on  the  contrary,  felt  only 
exhilaration. 

"When  we  first  met,"  she  said  at  length,  "you  re- 
marked that  I  would  make  a  good  lawyer.  You  under- 
stood me  better  then  than  you  seem  to  do  now." 

Fillmore  shook  his  head. 

"I  might  make  a  good  lawyer,"  Perdita  continued, 
"  but  I  should  make  a  very  bad  lawyer's  wife." 

"I  am  a  man,  as  well  as  a  lawyer,"  said  Fillmore, 
bending  a  strong  look  upon  her. 

"And  a  gentleman,  as  well  as  a  man,"  she  added 
with  a  gracious  smile.  "  In  fact,  sir,  if  you  were  less 
agreeable,  I  might  love  you  ;  but  as  it  is,  I  like  you  and 
enjoy  your  society  much  too  well  for  that.  I  would 
rather  hate  you  than  love  you :  and  as  for  marrying  you 
— pardon  me  for  being  the  first  to  speak  the  word,  but 


DUST.  287 

widows  have  privileges — I  would  rather  love  you  and 
have  you  jilt  me !" 

There  was  a  certain  delicate  comicality  in  Perdita's 
way  of  saying  this,  which,  though  it  implied  no  slight 
to  Fillmore,  was  more  disheartening  than  the  most  em- 
phatic and  serious  "No "  would  have  been. 

"  I  had  been  flattering  myself  with  the  idea  that  you 
looked  upon  me  more  as  if  I  were  a  man  than  a  woman," 
she  continued.  "  Any  one  can  fall  in  love  with  a  pretty 
woman  ;  and  there  is  less  distinction  in  being  loved  by 
a  man  like  you,  than  in  having  you  treat  me  as  a  friend 
and  an  equal — if  you  would  do  that !" 

"  You  are  the  only  woman  who  has  ever  been  a  woman 
for  me,"  replied  Fillmore,  with  passion.  "  The  love  both 
of  my  youth  and  of  my  manhood  is  yours.  I  will  do 
anything  to  win  you.  I  will  never  give  you  up." 

"Oh,  I  can  easily  make  you  give  me  up,"  said  Per- 
dita  with  a  sigh. 

"How?" 

"  By  letting  you  know  me  better." 

"You  do  not  know  me !"  he  exclaimed. 

"  I  shall  always  love  some  one  else  better  than  you." 

"  Who  ?"  demanded  he,  turning  pale. 

"Myself!"  said  Perdita  with  a  laugh. 

"You  can  be  my  wife,  nevertheless." 

"  That  I  never  will,"  she  said,  looking  him  in  the  face. 

He  rose  from  his  chair.  "I  will  never  give  you  up," 
he  repeated.  "  I  will  go  now.  You  will  let  me  come 
again  ?" 

"  As  often  as  you  like  :  I  am  not  afraid  of  you,"  was 
her  answer. 

Fillmore  bowed  and  turned  away.  She  had  had  the 
advantage  so  far.  But  he  loved  her  thrice  as  much 
as  he  had  done  before,  and  he  had  never  suffered  defeat 
in  anything  he  had  undertaken.  She  neither  loved  him 
nor  feared  him  ? — But  she  could  be  his  wife,  neverthe- 
less ;  and  he  would  do  anything  to  win  her. 


CHAPTEE  XXVIH. 

A  CERTAIN  change  was  no  doubt  observable  in  Ma- 
rion. It  might  have  been  supposed  that  a  life  so  se- 
cluded and  reserved  as  hers  had  been  thus  far,  would 
not  have  encountered  the  novel  conditions  of  wealth  and 
fashion  without  some  awkwardness  and  bewilderment. 
But  it  was  not  so.  She  met  the  Goddess  of  Fortune 
half-way,  and  seemed  in  no  respect  at  a  loss  how  to 
greet  her.  In  fact,  the  only  sign  she  betrayed  of  being 
unaccustomed  to  abundant  worldly  resources  was  the 
activity  and  despatch  she  showed  in  taking  advantage 
of  them  ;  as  if  life  offered  nothing  but  a  variety  of  di- 
versions, and  it  was  incumbent  upon  one  who  appre- 
ciated life  at  its  true  value  to  canvass  that  variety  in 
the  shortest  space  possible.  "Whether  she  held,  further, 
that  the  variety  was  to  be  inexhaustible,  or  the  life 
short,  did  not  appear.  Philip  was  at  first  pleased  with 
her  alacrity ;  afterwards,  his  pleasure  was  less,  and  his 
surprise  greater.  He  had  promised  himself  some  grati- 
fication in  introducing  his  wife  to  the  greater  society, 
and  initiating  her  into  its  splendors  and  amusements  : 
but  he  found,  not  only  that  his  leadership  was  unneces- 
sary, but  that  he  would  have  to  exert  himself  to  be  the 
leader  at  all.  Marion  was  fully  equal  to  her  position 
and  opportunities.  She  faced  the  sun  unshrinkingly, 
and,  indeed,  with  a  smile  almost  as  of  half-contemptuous 
familiarity.  When  she  referred  to  the  simplicity  and 
difficulty  of  her  previous  experience,  it  was  generally  to 
expose  the  humorous  aspect  of  the  contrast  with  the 
present. 

288 


DUST.  289 

"What  a  beautiful  thing  wealth  is!"  she  exclaimed 
one  day  to  her  husband. 

"Glad  you  think  so,"  the  latter  replied,  cautiously: 
for  he  seldom  could  be  sure,  nowadays,  whether  Ma- 
rion's observations  would  turn  out  serious  or  cynical. 

"  'Tis  the  best  missionary  in  the  world,"  she  con- 
tinued;  "it  Christianizes  even  tradesmen,  and  makes 
them  self-sacrificing.  And  the  curious  part  is,  that  'tis 
not  their  being  wealthy  themselves,  but  their  knowing 
us  to  be,  that  makes  them  so  magnanimous.  When 
mother  and  I  were  poor — pardon  my  mentioning  such 
a  thing,  but  'tis  only  between  ourselves — our  tradesmen 
not  only  permitted  us  to  pay  our  bills,  but  insisted  on 
our  doing  so  promptly  :  and  if  we  got  behindhand,  they 
growled  about  bailiffs.  But  now — la  I  bless  you,  the 
mention  of  a  bill  hurts  their  feelings,  and  to  pay  one 
would  break  their  hearts.  It 's  a  blessed  change  of  heart 
in  them ;  and  would  have  been  more  blessed  still  if  it 
had  only  happened  to  come  before  our  change  of  pocket, 
instead  of  after." 

"If  we  go  on  at  our  present  rate,  both  they  and  we 
may  relapse,"  said  Philip,  laughing.  "Twenty  thou- 
sand pounds  capital  is  not  twenty  thousand  a  year." 

"It  is,  for  one  year  ;  and  who  knows  what  may  hap- 
pen after  that  ?  We  might  count  on  two  years,  even : 
the  faith  of  the  tradesmen  would  hold  out  so  long  at 
least." 

"They  don't  ask  us  to  pay  now  only  because  they 
know  their  money  is  safe,"  said  Mrs.  Lockhart,  with 
her  pathetic  literalnees.  "  And  they  don't  lose  anything, 
because  our  orders  are  larger,  and  their  prices  are 
higher.  And  you  should  be  just  as  careful  not  to  run  in 
debt,  my  dear,  when  you  are  rich  as  when  you  are  poor." 

Marion  looked  at  her  mother  with  an  odd  smile.  "  I 
wish  you'd  let  me  forget  you,"  she  said  at  length. 
"  You  've  been  encouraging  me  all  my  life  to  be  a  woman 


290  DUST. 

of  fashion,  and  now  you  turn  against  me.    But  I  ''m  de- 
termined not  to  be  baulked  !" 

And  in  truth,  Marion  had  made  a  good  beginning. 
The  old  house  in  Hammersmith  had  been  shut  up  (it 
was  her  desire  that  it  should  be  neither  let  nor  sold)  and 
they  had  gone  into  the  new  and  improved  mansion 
whereof  Fillmore  had  spoken  to  Perdita.  They  kept  a 
carriage  and  horses,  half-a-dozen  servants,  and  an  ex- 
cellent table ;  gave  parties  and  routs  to  their  fashion- 
able acquaintance,  and  accepted  the  like  civilities  from 
them.  It  was  the  thing  in  society  at  that  moment  to  go 
to  the  Lancasters  :  Philip  was  a  genius,  besides  being 
nearly  related  to  Lord  Seabridge :  Marion  was  charm- 
ing, witty,  and  fully  up  to  her  position :  her  father,  it 
was  understood,  had  been  a  distinguished  officer  and  a 
personal  friend  of  the  Iron  Duke.  Among  the  most 
notable  of  their  new  friends  was  old  Lady  Flanders,  who 
not  only  honored  their  drawing-room  with  her  presence 
when  the  rest  of  the  world  was  there,  but  quite  often 
took  the  trouble  to  drop  in  on  them  informally.  She 
had  once  or  twice  met  Mrs.  Lockhart  in  London  and  at 
the  Baths,  when  the  latter  was  lovely  Fanny  Pell,  forty 
years  or  so  ago  :  and  she  now  came  ostensibly  to  renew 
her  acquaintance  with  that  lady,  and  to  talk  over  the 
old  times.  But  in  the  midst  of  these  amiable  reminis- 
cences, it  was  observable  that  she  gave  a  good  deal  of 
attention  to  young  Mrs.  Lancaster,  who  seemed  to  have 
a  peculiar  interest  for  her. 

"  You  like  having  money,  Mrs.  Lancaster,"  her  lady- 
ship remarked  one  day,  after  examining  critically  a  new 
dress  which  Marion  had  on. 

"  I  cannot  deny  it,  Lady  Flanders." 

"Nonsense!  A  woman  like  you  can  deny  anything. 
But  you  're  quite  in  the  right  not  to  deny  it.  We  hear 
a  great  deal  from  silly  people  about  the  dignity  of  pov- 
erty. That  is  just  what  poverty  is  not :  poverty  is  not 


DUST.  291 

dignified !  'Tis  hard  enough  to  hold  up  one's  head  at 
the  best  of  times — such  arrant  knaves  and  humbugs  as 
we  all  are,  and  all  of  us  except  the  fools  know  it :  but 
on  an  empty  pocket  'tis  impossible  !  I  recollect- when  I 
was  in  Egypt,  about  thirty  years  ago,  meeting  a  Bed- 
ouin Arab  who,  I  thought  for  a  while,  was  an  exception 
to  the  rule.  He  hadn't  a  rag  on  him,  except  a  greasy 
turban  and  a  yard  of  ragged  cloak  dangling  down  his 
back  ;  he  was  as  dirty  as  a  stable  floor  ;  but  he  had  the 
bearing  of  a  prince — though  not  of  a  good  many  princes 
I  could  name,  neither.  That  man  (said  I)  is  an  incar- 
nation of  dignity  and  a  type  of  poverty,  both  in  one: 
and  if  he  'd  have  me,  I  'd  marry  him  to-night  I  What 
were  we  talking  about  ?" 

"  That  poverty  could  not  be  dignified." 

"  Aye  :  very  true.  So,  just  to  prove  my  rule  by  this  ex- 
ception, said  I,  '  My  friend,  I'll  give  you  fourpence  to  go 
up  to  the  top  of  that  pyramid  and  be  back  here  again  in 
five  minutes. '  He  dropped  his  dignity — it  was  about  all 
he  had  to  drop,  as  I  told  you — and  scuttled  up  that  pyra- 
mid like  a  squirrel.  He  earned  his  fourpence,  and  I 
married  his  lordship."  Here  Lady  Flanders  took  snuff, 
and  added,  "  You  may  live  to  find  out,  Mr.  Lancaster, 
that  you  've  been  too  avaricious.  You  weren't  satisfied 
with  a  wife  ;  you  must  have  a  fortune  into  the  bargain. 
Look  out  you  don't  find  yourself  without  both  some  fine 
morning." 

"Your  ladyship  is  kind  to  forewarn  me,  "said  Philip, 
who  was  always  rubbed  the  wrong  way  by  Lady  Flan- 
ders. 

"  You  don't  believe  me  :  but  you  are  a  poet  and  a  phi- 
losopher, and  you  comprehend  the  structure  of  the  uni- 
verse too  clearly  to  see  into  your  own  domestic  business. 
You  don't  know,  at  this  moment,  what  to  make  of  your 
wife's  extravagance  and  ambition.  She  used  to  be  quite 
different,  didn't  she  ?  And  you  understood  her  charac- 


292  DUST. 

ter  so  well,  you  were  sure  prosperity  couldn't  spoil  her. — 
They  are  all  like  that,  my  dear,"  she  continued,  turning 
to  Marion  ;  "they  load  us  down  to  the  water's  edge,  or 
below  it,  and  expect  us  to  dance  about  and  mind  the 
helm  just  as  prettily  as  when  we  were  unburdened.  They 
don't  know  our  weapons ;  they  can  feel  them  in  their 
hearts,  or  in  their  purses,  or  in  what  they  call  their 
honor  ;  but  they  can  never  see  what  strikes  them,  or 
how  they  are  struck.  I  don't  blame  you,  my  dear :  give 
him  all  he  deserves  :  but  I  have  a  regard  for  you,  and 
.shouldn't  like  to  see  you  crippling  yourself  in  the  pro- 
cess. But  you  have  a  head  to  see  your  way,  as  well  as 
a  heart  to  feel  his  impositions.  I  shall  look  for  you  to 
give  a  good  account  of  him  a  year  hence.  'Tis  a  pity 
he  hasn't  a  title.  But  we  may  be  able  to  get  him  one  : 
I  '11  see  about  it.  I  have  found  such  things  very  useful." 

It  was  difficult  to  say  what  Lady  Flanders  meant  by 
this  kind  of  diatribes,  which,  indeed,  were  never  more 
embarrassing  than  when  she  took  it  for  granted  that  her 
interlocutor  was  sagacious  enough  to  understand  her.  It 
was  plain,  nevertheless,  that  this  awful  old  aristocrat  pos- 
sessed an  uncomfortable  keenness  of  insight;  and  that 
she  generally  put  the  worst  construction  on  whatever 
she  saw.  Philip  perceived  that  she  enjoyed  opposition, 
as  giving  her  an  opportunity  for  repartee,  in  which  she 
was  fatally  proficient ;  and  therefore  he  seldom  entered 
into  a  discussion  with  her.  But  what  she  said  about 
Marion,  and  her  general  tone  regarding  her,  appealed  to 
a  certain  obscure  misgiving  in  Philip's  own  mind,  and 
made  him  feel  more  ill  at  ease  than  he  would  have  liked 
to  confess.  He  smiled  as  complacently  as  he  could ;  but 
the  smile  was  painfully  superficial. 

From  Marion  herself,  meanwhile,  he  could  obtain 
little  or  no  satisfaction.  He  did  not  like  to  speak  to  her 
"seriously  "  on  the  subject,  partly  because  he  could  not 
exactly  define  to  himself  what  the  subject  was,  and 


DUST.  293 

partly,  perhaps,  because  he  feared  to  discover  that  the 
subject,  be  it  what  it  might,  would  turn  out  more  seri- 
ous than  might  be  agreeable. 

"  You  deserve  credit  for  being  so  civil  to  that  hideous 
old  woman,"  he  would  sometimes  say. 

"  Not  at  all !"  Marion  would  reply  laughingly.  "  Lady 
Flanders  represents  the  world.  I  am  going  to  be  a  wo- 
man of  the  world,  and  so  I  pay  court  to  her.  She  tells 
me  a  great  many  things  'tis  necessary  I  should  know. 
The  objection  is  on  my  side." 

"You  are  going  to  be  a  woman  of  the  world,  are 
you  ?" 

"  La  !  of  course.  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  I 
used  to  be  very  busy  washing  clothes  and  getting  the 
dinner,  in  the  old  times ;  but  now  I  have  a  laundress 
and  a  cook  and  a  housekeeper,  and  nothing  to  attend  to 
except  inviting  our  guests  and  making  myself  agreeable 
to  them.  When  we  were  in  Hammersmith  I  was  what 
I  had  to  be  ;  now  I  can  be  what  I  please  ;  and  it  pleases 
me  to  be  like  .  .  .  other  fine  ladies." 

"Could  you  not  make  yourself  agreeable  to  your 
guests  and  to  me  at  the  same  time  ?" 

"  To  you  ?    Why,  you  are  my  husband  1" 

"Very  true,  Mrs.  Lancaster." 

"  What  can  be  more  agreeable  to  you  than  to  see  your 
wife  popular  in  Society  ?" 

"We  thought  of  something  better  than  that  when 
...  we  first  fell  in  love  with  each  other,"  said  Philip, 
fixing  his  eyes  upon  her. 

"  Something  different :  but  was  it  better  ?  or  so  wise  ? 
Are  not  a  hundred  people  more  amusing  than  one  ?  At 
all  events,  we  must  take  the  evil  with  the  good  of  our 
position.  Love  in  a  cottage  is  one  thing,  you  know,  and 
love  in  a  palace  another." 

."  No  love  at  all,  perhaps  you  mean  ?" 

"No  such  love,  that 's  all." 


294  DUST. 

"  Well,  if  you  're  content,  I  've  no  more  to  say." 
"Content!  How  should  I  not?  My  ambition  isn't 
satisfied,  though.  I  mean  to  be  spoken  of  as  '  the 
beautiful  Mrs.  Lancaster '  one  of  these  days.  Oh,  it 
will  come  to  pass,  I  assure  you !  The  first  thing  one 
generally  says,  when  one  is  shown  a  fashionable  beauty, 
is,  'What !  that  homely  creature  !' — 'tis  all  a  matter  of 
dress  and  effrontery.  I  shall  do  very  well.  What  do 
you  think  of  my  gown  ?" 

"  Very  fine.     But  what  about  the  effrontery  ?" 
"At  all  events,  that  costs  no  money,"  said  Marion, 
with  a  laugh. 

Marion's  social  success  was  undeniably  great.  She 
possessed  both  tact  and  courage — two  qualities  not  al- 
ways found  in  company ;  and  she  had  more  intelligence 
than  most  of  the  women  she  came  in  contact  with. 
Her  figure  and  movement  were  fine,  her  dress  always  in 
good  taste  ;  her  voice  agreeable  ;  her  face  had  a  poig- 
nancy and  variety  of  expression  that  produced  the  effect 
of  beauty  without  being  beautiful.  At  her  presentation 
at  Court,  the  Prince  of  Wales,  who  had  complimented 
her  mother  more  than  a  generation  before,  informed 
Marion  that  she  made  him  wish  he  was  young  again, 
begad  1  She  speedily  found  herself  surrounded  by  a 
circle  of  gentlemen  who  were  only  too  ready  to  express 
their  admiration  for  her ;  prominent  among  whom  was 
the  little  Irish  poet,  Thomas  Moore,  who  was  not  dis- 
heartened by  the  unceremonious  treatment  she  had 
given  him  at  their  first  interview :  and  she  completed 
her  conquest  of  him  by  singing  a  song  which  he  vowed 
he  had  composed  in  her  praise.  Young  Mrs.  Lancaster 
was  in  demand  everywhere  :  her  box  at  the  theatre  and 
the  opera  was  always  crowded ;  when  she  rode  or  drove 
in  the  Row,  she  was  attended  by  a  retinue  of  cavaliers  : 
she  played  cards,  danced,  talked  politics,  and,  in  short, 
ignored  the  inside  and  celebrated  the  outside  of  life. 


DUST.  295 

Lady  Flanders  looked  on  at  it  all,  grinned  horribly  be- 
neath her  shaggy  eyebrows,  and  neglected  no  opportu- 
nity of  congratulating  Philip  on  being  the  husband  of 
so  brilliant  a  woman.  "You  must  look  out  for  your 
laurels,  Mr.  Lancaster,"  she  would  add  :  "  '  Iduna '  was 
well  enough  for  the  idyllic  period,  but  you  must  give  us 
something  better  now ;  make  the  lady  elope  with  the 
Lord  Chamberlain,  and  leave  the  Sea-God  in  the  lurch." 
Mrs.  Lockhart,  on  the  other  hand,  whose  nature  it  was 
always  to  enjoy  what  was  good  in  the  world,  and  not  to 
see  or  believe  in  the  bad,  was  placidly  happy  in  the  con- 
viction that  her  daughter  was  as  prosperous  as  she  de- 
served to  be,  and  as  merry  as  she  seemed.  Marion  was 
uniformly  careful  not  to  disturb  the  maternal  serenity, 
though  once  she  startled  the  poor  lady  by  exclaiming 
"  Oh,  I  wish  Mr.  Grant  were  alive  I"  with  a  passionate 
moan  in  her  voice  like  the  outcry  of  a  soul  in  despair. 

Was  anything  the  matter,  then  ?  Marion  had  no 
confidants,  except  solitude,  which  tells  no  tales.  But 
it  may  be  conjectured  that,  when  she  yielded  to  her  hus- 
band on  the  question  of  the  legacy,  she  gave  up,  once 
for  all,  her  view  of  right,  and  set  herself  to  adopt  his 
own.  "  If  Philip  wants  wealth,"  she  might  have  said 
to  herself,  "it  must  be  to  reap  the  worldly  advantages 
of  it.  These  are  necessary  to  his  happiness :  and  'tis 
my  duty,  therefore,  to  help  him,  as  a  wife  should,  to  be 
happy  in  his  own  way.  I  take  my  law  from  him ;  I 
will  have  no  half  measures  :  and  he  shall  have  just  the 
fashionable,  dashing,  rattling  wife  that  he  wants." 

Having  laid  down  this  general  principle,  it  would  be 
characteristic  of  Marion  to  act  upon  it  fervently.  No 
doubt  she  was  far  from  being  incapable  of  appreciating 
the  charm  that  lies  in  social  dissipation  ;  but  she  would 
perhaps  have  thrown  herself  into  it  with  less  of  reck- 
lessness and  abandon,  had  she  gained  access  to  it  by 
Borne  less  humiliating  path.  There  was  a  pride  and  no- 


296  DUST. 

bility  in  her  that  had  the  effect  of  making  her  give  more 
energy  and  prominence  to  conduct  which  opposed  her 
conscience  than  to  that  which  was  approved  by  it.  She 
startled  and  perplexed  Philip,  and  fascinated  him  also  ; 
he  found  in  her  a  vigor  and  activity  superior  to  his  own. 
She  out-Heroded  Herod  ;  he  had  not  suspected  all  this 
latent  power ;  and  yet  he  felt  that  something  tender  and 
sweet  and  infinitely  valuable,  was  missing.  There  were 
between  them  no  more  silent  sympathies  and  intuitive 
agreements.  What  was  to  be  done  and  said,  not  thought 
and  felt,  was  now  the  subject  of  their  intercourse. 
Their  communication  was  more  lively  but  less  satisfy- 
ing than  of  yore. 

What  was  Marion's  idea  and  intention  in  this  ?  Did 
she  really  believe  that  it  was  what  her  husband  wanted  ? 
Logically,  perhaps,  she  did  so ;  but  scarcely  in  her 
heart.  Women,  when  they  are  logical,  generally  are  so 
in  an  extreme  and  illogical  way ;  as  if  to  demonstrate 
how  contemptible  logic  is.  More  than  half  her  vivacity 
may  have  been  assumed  in  order  to  provoke  Philip  into 
finding  fault  with  it ;  and  yet,  if  he  did  find  fault  with 
it,  she  would  profess  herself  at  a  loss  to  know  what  on 
earth  would  please  him.  If  he  suggested  moderation, 
she  would  say  "No  :  I  must  be  one  thing  or  the  other." 
If  he  replied  "Be  the  other,  then,"  she  would  answer, 
"Too  late,  now  I  have  learnt  how  pleasant  dissipation 
is."  And  if  he  asked  her  whether  dissipation  were  the 
true  end  of  marriage  ?  she  would  laugh  and  reply  that 
one  cannot  have  everything  in  this  world. 

Thus,  by  degrees,  were  these  two  married  lovers,  who 
had  begun  their  career  under  such  fair  auspices,  draw- 
ing away  from  each  other :  what  was  best  in  each  of 
them  was  starving  for  lack  of  nourishment ;  but  Ma- 
rion, at  least,  was  proud  enough  to  starve  to  death 
rather  than  confess  to  suffering.  As  a  matter  of  course, 
since  they  could  not  meet  in  the  only  way  worth  meet- 


DUST.  297 

ing,  they  looked  away  from  each  other  as  much  as  pos- 
sible. Philip  tried  to  find  consolation  in  his  poetry  : 
but  the  faculty  of  happy  concentration  and  abstraction 
no  longer  came  to  him  as  formerly.  The  loving  and  con- 
fidential talks  which  he  and  Marion  had  been  wont  to 
have,  about  what  he  was  writing,  or  purposing  to  write, 
were  hardly  practicable  now  ;  but,  if  he  found  the  crav- 
ing for  intellectual  sympathy  too  strong  in  him,  there 
was  always  one  place  where  he  was  sure  to  find  it,  and 
that  was  in  the  private  boudoir  of  the  Marquise  Des- 
moines.  She  always  welcomed  him  with  loveliness  and 
delightful  words  :  she  looked  him  in  the  eye  and  spoke 
to  the  point :  he  felt  the  immediate  contact  of  her  mind 
and  nature,  and  experienced  from  it  a  secret  sense  of 
luxury  and  consolation.  At  first,  Perdita  used  to  in- 
quire courteously  after  Marion ;  but  after  a  time  these 
inquiries  became  rarer,  and  finally  ceased.  Nor  did 
Philip  happen  to  mention  these  visits  to  his  wife  :  what 
would  it  matter  to  her  where  he  went  or  what  he  found 
to  converse  about  ?  She  probably  had  her  own  interests 
and  occupations,  of  which  he  was  ignorant.  She  would 
only  laugh,  and  say  that  he  was  fulfilling  Lady  Flan- 
ders' predictions. 

Once  in  a  while,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  gayety  and  re- 
sonance, Marion's  laugh  would  suddenly  end  in  a  long, 
shuddering  sigh,  and  her  eyes  would  grow  hot  and  dry. 
But  she  would  laugh  again,  and  utter  some  witty,  ex- 
travagant speech,  if  she  thought  her  husband  was  ob- 
serving her.  And  once,  at  night,  Philip  chanced  to 
awake,  and  fancied  that  Marion  was  weeping,  and  the 
bed  was  shaken  by  her  smothered  sobs.  But,  when  he 
spoke  to  her,  she  started,  and  declared,  after  a  moment, 
that  she  had  been  asleep,  and  had  a  nightmare.  u  I 
dreamt  Lady  Flanders  had  grown  young  and  beautiful," 
she  said,  "and  wore  a  dress  handsomer  than  mine  :  and 
it  broke  my  heart !"  Whereupon  Philip  said  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THERE  was  in  Perdita  a  strong  element  of  adventur- 
ousness  and  Bohemianism,  which  had  not  as  yet  been  so 
fully  gratified  as  to  lose  its  poignancy.  A  longing  came 
over  her,  occasionally,  to  behold  phases  of  life  that  would 
not,  in  the  ordinary  course  of  things,  come  under  her 
observation.  At  such  times  she  would  regret  that  she 
had  not  been  born  a  gypsy — in  oblivion  of  the  fact  that 
although,  being  a  marquise,  she  might  play  at  vagabond- 
age, it  would  not  be  as  easy  for  a  vagabond  to  experience 
the  sensations  of  a  marquise.  The  latter  has  the  best 
of  it. 

At  this  epoch  of  our  history  it  so  happened  that  Per- 
dita fell  a  victim  to  one  of  the  periodical  attacks  in 
question.  She  wanted  to  do  or  see  something  a  little 
beyond  the  boundaries  of  conventional  propriety.  What 
should  it  be  ?  She  passed  in  mental  review  all  the  re- 
sources of  the  town.  There  was  plenty  of  impropriety 
to  be  had  for  the  taking, — that  was  speedily  evident ; 
but  perhaps  it  was  the  very  wealth  of  the  opportunities 
that  rendered  the  Marquise  hard  to  suit.  Her  motive 
being  curiosity,  not  desperation,  she  did  not  wish  to  in- 
volve herself  in  anything  that  would  lay  her  open  to 
social  obloquy ;  she  would  not  risk  her  escapade  being 
discovered  by  people  she  knew.  Furthermore,  there 
were  many  aspects  of  the  shady  side  of  life  which  she 
had  no  disposition  to  investigate.  Between  these  two 
stools  the  fair  explorer  was  in  some  danger  of  coming  to 
the  ground :  when,  all  at  once,  she  made  up  her  mind 
that  her  requirements  would  be  well  enough  satisfied  by 
a  visit  to  Vauxhall. 

98 


DUST.  299 

"If  enjoyment  be  your  motto,"  observes  Corinthian 
Tom  to  his  country  friend  in  the  green  coat  and  leather 
gaiters,  "go  to  Vauxhall."  The  record  of  the  many 
moving  exploits  of  those  three  classic  worthies  had  not 
as  yet  been  compiled ;  but  Vauxhall  was  in  its  glory, 
nevertheless.  Nor  could  it  properly  be  described  as  an 
improper  place :  improper  people  were  to  be  found  there, 
no  doubt,  doing  improper  things;  but  there  are  few 
places,  good  or  bad,  in  this  world,  of  which  the  same 
might  not  be  said.  The  trail  of  the  serpent  is  every- 
where; but,  this  being  admitted,  all  that  respectable 
persons  have  to  do  is  to  ignore  it.  At  all  events,  num- 
bers of  the  most  respectable  people  visited  Vauxhall, 
and  were  none  the  less  respected  for  doing  so ;  but  in 
this,  as  in  other  matters,  everything  depended  upon  the 
way  the  thing  was  done.  The  Marquise  Desmoines,  for 
example,  might,  under  suitable  male  escort,  have  spent 
all  her  evenings  at  Vauxhall  with  impunity:  and  that 
was  one  reason  why  she  had  never  yet  been  there.  What 
she  could  not  so  safely  do  was  to  go  there  alone ;  and  it 
was  no  less  an  achievement  than  that,  consequently, 
that  she  had  in  view.  She  would  wear  a  veil,  of  course, 
and  a  thick  one ;  and  she  would  be  attended  by  Madame 
Cabot,  not  so  much  for  protection  as  for  convenience. 
But  she  would  go  to  Vauxhall  independent  of  the  sup- 
port of  the  sterner  sex ;  and  it  was  only  reasonable  to 
suppose  that  she  would  see  something  worth  seeing 
before  the  night  was  out.  She  made  her  preparations 
accordingly,  and  gave  no  further  explanation  of  her 
purpose  to  Madame  Cabot  than  to  tell  her  that  she 
would  require  her  company  that  evening.  Madame 
Cabot  was  not  aware  that  such  a  place  as  Vauxhall  ex- 
isted ;  and  it  was  conceivable  that  the  good  lady  might 
never  realize,  even  after  her  return,  how  perilous  an  en- 
terprise she  had  accomplished. 

The  evening  was    a  fine    one,  and  Perdita,  having 


300  DUST. 

driven  to  a  point  near  the  entrance  of  the  Gardens,  and 
given  orders  to  the  coachman  to  remain  there  until  her 
return,  entered  the  grounds  with  Madame  Cabot.  The 
place  was  brilliant  with  innumerable  lamps,  and  crowded 
with  people.  There  was  a  sound  of  music  in  various  di- 
rections, proceeding  not  from  German  brass  bands,  nor 
from  Italian  organ-grinders,  but  from  the  slim-legged 
fiddlers  in  cocked  hats,  who  nourished  their  bows  and 
wagged  their  heads  beneath  fan-shaped  sounding-boards 
resplendent  with  gilding.  Dancing  was  going  on  in  some 
places,  the  participants  being  ranged  in  long  rows  facing 
one  another,  while  two  or  more  of  their  number  manoeu- 
vred, capered,  skimmed  hand-in-hand  down  the  middle, 
or  dodged  behind  the  lines,  pursued  by  the  rest  in  tu- 
multuous procession.  Elsewhere  professional  tumblers 
and  gymnasts  performed  their  feats  in  the  centre  of 
noisy  crowds,  and  a  meagre  young  lady  in  wrinkled 
tights  and  short  gauze  skirt  appeared  in  mid-air  above 
the  heads  of  the  spectators,  pursuing  her  teetering  way 
upon  a  rope  depending  between  two  thick  posts.  Another 
person  of  the  same  sex,  in  a  nondescript  costume,  re- 
markable chiefly  for  its  spangles,  was  causing  wonder  by 
her  affectionate  familiarities  with  a  gaunt  beast  which 
seemed  to  have  entered  natural  history  on  its  sole  re- 
sponsibility, though  it  was  only  a  black  bear  with  its 
hair  shaved  off.  For  those  whose  ambition  prompted 
them  to  draw  aside  the  veil  of  futurity,  there  was  pro- 
vided a  long-bearded  soothsayer  in  a  glittering  hermit- 
age, who  had  spent  his  leisure  in  committing  the  history 
of  coming  ages  to  scraps  of  paper,  which  he  disposed  of 
at  from  a  shilling  to  half-a-crown  each.  Around  and  be- 
tween these  various  centres  of  interest  the  crowd  twisted, 
shifted,  elbowed,  and  threaded  itself  in  and  out,  talking, 
shouting,  whispering,  laughing  and  staring.  Eepresen- 
tatives  of  all  classes  were  there :  the  country  squire  in 
green  coat,  white  corduroys  and  drab  gaiters :  young 


DUST.  301 

bloods  in  dark  blue  coats,  red-striped  waiscoats,  buck- 
skins, hessians,  and  neckcloths :  others  in  beruffled  opera 
dress,  with  black  silk  tights  and  cocked  hats  :  bruisers 
in  loose  brown  jockeys  and  white-topped  boots  :  theatri- 
cal characters,  clean-shaven,  with  white  lamb's-wool 
stockings  and  blue-and-bird's-eye  kerchiefs :  sharpers  in 
rakish  but  threadbare  attire,  their  legs  encased  in  tight 
pantaloons  tied  at  the  ankles,  thin  shoes,  and  with  rouge 
on  their  lank  cheeks :  women  in  bonnets  like  funnels,  or 
huge  hats  and  feathers,  with  short-waisted  gowns  and 
long  gloves,  stout  and  thin,  tall  and  short,  coquettish 
and  timid,  pretty  and  ugly :  a  mixed  and  parti-colored 
assemblage,  all  come  ostensibly  to  enjoy  themselves,  and 
few  knowing  whether  they  were  doing  so  or  not. ;  alto- 
gether a  comical,  melancholy,  absurd,  pathetic,  restless, 
aimless,  anomalous  mass  of  human  beings,  illustrating 
the  fact  that  between  frank  barbarism,  and  civilization 
out  for  a  holiday,  the  difference,  such  as  it  is,  is  not  in 
favor  of  the  latter. 

After  wandering  about  the  place,  and  meeting  with  a 
number  of  trifling  adventures,  such  as  receiving  proffers 
of  gallantry  from  fashionable  gentlemen,  one  or  two  of 
whom  she  was  acquainted  with,  little  as  they  suspected 
whose  dark  eyes  were  glancing  at  them  behind  the  blue 
silk  veil;  or  being  swept  away  unexpectedly  into  the 
whirl  of  a  country  dance,  in  the  course  of  which  Madame 
Cabot's  bonnet  became  badly  demoralized ;  or  being 
pressingly  invited  to  drink  beer  by  a  hilarious  party  of 
young  men  and  women,  whose  recommendations  were 
evidently  the  outcome  of  experience  ; — after  sundry  vicis- 
situdes of  this  kind,  all  of  which  greatly  amused  the 
Marquise  and  made  her  laugh  heartily — the  two  ladies 
became  weary  of  keeping  their  feet  amidst  so  much 
jostle  and  uproar,  and  sought  out  a  spot  where  they 
might  sit  down  and  contemplate  the  spectacle  at  their  lei- 
sure. With  this  purpose  they  made  their. way  to  a  range 


302  DUST. 

of  boxes  or  cabinets,  facing  upon  a  large  open  space, 
and  connected  behind  with  an  establishment  for  the  sup- 
ply of  rack-punch  and  ham  sandwiches.  Having  rented 
the  right  of  sole  occupancy  of  one  of  these  boxes  for  the 
evening,  they  made  themselves  as  comfortable  in  it  as 
the  narrow  and  angular  fashion  of  the  chairs  permitted. 
The  lamps  flaring  on  the  front  of  the  box,  left  the  interior 
in  comparative  shadow  ;  and  the  seclusion  could  be  in- 
creased by  drawing  some  flimsy  red  curtains,  which 
dangled  from  a  brass  rod  across  the  entrance.  Other 
parties  were  in  the  adjoining  boxes  on  either  side,  and 
their  conversation  was  indistinctly  audible  on  the  back- 
ground of  the  prevailing  hubbub. 

Perdita  moved  her  chair  into  the  right-hand  corner,  in 
order  that  she  might  eke  out  the  accommodation  of  her 
chair  by  leaning  against  the  partition.  After  she  had 
remained  for  some  time  in  this  position,  her  eyes  wander- 
ing over  the  multiform  elements  of  the  unorganized 
drama  before  her,  she  became  aware  that  some  one  was 
speaking  on  the  other  side  of  the  thin  boarding  that 
separated  her  from  the  next  cabinet.  Words,  and  parts 
of  sentences,  were  here  and  there  distinguishable  :  but 
these  would  have  had  no  interest  for  Perdita,  had  she 
not  suddenly  made  the  discovery  that  the  voice  was  one 
which  she  knew.  Several  moments  passed,  however, 
before  she  was  able  to  connect  the  voice,  in  her  mind, 
with  the  person  to  whom  it  belonged.  It  was  a  woman's 
voice,  rather  low,  but  with  a  penetrative  quality  in  it : 
a  peculiar  voice,  both  in  timbre  and  intonation.  Whose 
was  it  ?  It  was,  of  course,  impossible  for  Perdita  to  see 
the  speaker,  unless  she  had  gone  outside  for  the  purpose. 
Possibly  her  curiosity  might  ultimately  have  led  her  to 
do  this  :  but  she  was  saved  the  trouble  by  presently  re- 
collecting that  the  speaker  in  question  was  none  other 
than  Marion  Lancaster. 

At  first,  though  it  surprised  her,  the  discovery  did  not 


DUST.  803 

especially  startle  the  Marquise.  There  was  nothing 
wonderful  in  Philip's  taking  his  wife  to  see  Vauxhall, 
although  it  might  not  be  the  place  which  a  newly-married 
couple  of  their  rank  and  disposition  would  most  natu- 
rally visit.  At  this  point,  however,  it  occurred  to  Per- 
dita,  with  the  thrill  of  a  genuine  sensation,  that  Philip 
could  not  be  there.  He  was  out  of  town,  having  taken 
the  coach  that  afternoon  to  St.  Albans'  to  meet  the  Earl 
of  Seabridge,  who  had  written  to  make  the  appointment 
on  a  matter  of  business.  This  Perdita  happened  to 
know,  because  Philip  had  stopped  at  her  house  in  the 
morning  to  present  her  with  an  illustrated  edition  of 
"Iduna,"  which  had  just  come  out ;  and  had  then  men-, 
tioned  that  he  was  on  his  way  northward,  and  would 
not  return  before  the  evening  of  the  following  day.  It 
was  the  first  night  that  he  had  been  separated  from  his 
wife  since  their  marriage.  That  Marion  should  have 
chosen  that  very  night  to  go  to  Yauxhall  was,  therefore, 
fairly  remarkable.  For  what  purpose  could  she  have 
come  ?  Was  Mrs.  Lockhart  with  her  ?  Could  Philip 
have  been  aware  of  her  intention  ? 

Though  the  solution  of  these  problems  was  none  of 
Perdita's  business,  she  nevertheless  listened  very  intently 
in  the  hope  of  hearing  something  that  might  elucidate 
them.  It  was  impossible  to  make  out  anything  consecu- 
tive, the  rather  since  what  Marion  said  was  in  detached 
sentences,  and  the  replies  of  her  companion,  who  was 
apparently  a  female  servant,  were  of  a  like  character. 
The  following  bits  of  dialogue,  however,  seemed  to  de- 
tach themselves  from  the  medley  : 

"  I  fear  he  has  not  come,"  said  Marion. 

"  'Tis  early  yet,  ma'am,"  replied  the  other.  "Maybe 
he  .  ."  The  rest  was  inaudible. 

"  Be  sure  you  tell  me  if  you  see  any  one  I  know,"  Ma- 
rion said  after  awhile  :  "  it  must  never  be  known  ..." 

"No  one  'ud  know  you,  ma'am  ...  so  you  can  be 
easy  on  that  score." 


304  DUST. 

".  .  .  cannot  stay  here  much  longer.  If  he  does  not 
appear  soon  ...  it  might  come  to  the  knowledge  of 
my  husband,  and  .  .  ." 

Here  the  fragmentary  sentences  ceased  altogether  to 
be  distinguishable,  Marion  having  apparently  removed 
to  another  part  of  her  box.  But  Perdita  had  heard 
enough  to  convince  her  that  something  out  of  the  com- 
mon was  going  on.  Marion  had  come  secretly  to  Vaux- 
hall,  taking  advantage  of  her  husband's  absence,  in 
order  to  meet  some  gentleman  who  had  not  yet  made 
his  appearance.  So  much  was  evident,  and  it  was 
enough  to  place  Marion  in  a  light  which,  to  say  the  best 
of  it,  was  ambiguous.  Perdita  knew  not  what  to  make 
of  it.  Though  not  prone  to  be  over-charitable  in  her 
judgments  on  her  own  sex,  the  Marquise  was  too  keen  a 
reader  of  character  ever  to  have  supposed  that  Marion 
was  capable  of  an  immoral  intrigue.  Yet  here  was  cer- 
tainly an  intrigue,  and  it  was  difficult  to  see  how  it 
could  be  an  altogether  innocent  one.  Perdita,  in  fact, 
made  no  special  effort  in  this  direction ;  what  puzzled 
her  was  that  a  woman  of  Marion's  intelligence  should 
have  chosen  Vauxhall,  of  all  places  in  the  world,  to 
meet  a  lover  in.  True,  there  is  a  certain  kind  of  safety 
in  a  crowd ;  and  there  might  be  particular  circumstances 
rendering  Vauxhall  a  desirable  trysting-place  in  this 
instance :  and,  in  short,  there  is  never  any  accounting 
for  affairs  of  this  kind  on  logical  grounds  :  they  are  con- 
trolled by  too  many  unknown  and  unknowable  condi- 
tions. A  more  interesting  matter  of  speculation  regarded 
the  identity  of  the  man  whom  Marion  had  favored  with 
her  preference.  He  could  not  well  be  handsomer  than 
Philip,  Perdita  thought,  or  cleverer,  or,  in  a  general  way, 
more  attractive.  But,  of  course,  Marion  must  be  of  a 
different  opinion.  Who,  then,  was  to  her  mind  the  supe- 
rior person  ?  The  Marquise  rapidly  reviewed  the  names 
and  characters  of  the  various  gentlemen  with  whom 


DUST.  305 

Marion  was  likely  to  be  on  confidential  terms ;  but  one 
seemed  about  as  likely  as  another,  and  none  of  them,  to 
say  the  truth,  seemed  likely  at  all.  In  the  midst  of  her 
perplexity,  Marion  and  her  attendant  were  heard  to 
rise,  and  a  minute  later  they  came  out  of  their  box  and 
walked  away  slowly,  looking  about  them.  It  was  Ma- 
rion, beyond  a  doubt,  and  the  attendant  was  a  middle- 
aged  woman  in  whom  Perdita  fancied  she  recognized 
Mrs.  Lancaster's  private  maid,  who  had  been  formerly 
a  servant  of  Mrs.  Lockhart. 

For  a  moment,  Perdita  had  an  impulse  to  issue  forth 
and  follow  them,  and  see  the  end  of  the  adventure.  But 
a  regard  for  her  own  dignity,  as  well  as  a  sentiment  of 
respect  for  another  woman's  secret,  combined  to  restrain 
her.  It  was  enough  to  know  that  Marion  had  a  mys- 
tery of  this  kind  to  conceal ;  and  possibly  (such  is  the 
waywardness  of  the  moral  sense)  the  revelation  of  that 
fact  raised,  rather  than  lowered,  Marion  in  Perdita 's 
esteem.  That  a  woman  of  Marion's  apparently  passion- 
ate candor  and  simplicity  should  all  the  time  be  hiding 
so  hazardous  a  secret,  evinced  a  force  and  depth  of  cha- 
racter that  Perdita  had  not  been  prepared  for.  She 
was  a  woman  to  be  reckoned  with :  and  the  Marquise 
admitted  to  herself  with  a  curious  smile  that,  with  all 
her  own  keenness  and  knowledge  of  the  world,  she  had 
been  totally  mistaken  in  her  judgment  of  her. 

And  yet,  after  all,  might  not  the  mistake  be  in  sup- 
posing herself  to  have  been  mistaken  ?  Might  not  Ma- 
rion be  the  innocent  victim  of  appearances  ?  Could  her 
presence  there  be  merely  the  result  of  a  thoughtless 
frolic,  as  was  the  case  with  Perdita  herself?  But  against 
this  view  was  to  be  set  the  conclusive  testimony  of  the 
passages  of  conversation  she  had  overheard.  She  had 
not  overheard  much,  to  be  sure ;  but  much  or  little,  it 
had  been  conclusive  so  far  as  it  went ;  it  had  proved  that 
Marion  came  to  Vauxhall  to  meet  some  man.  What 


306  DUST. 

man  ?  "Was  there  any  man  whom  she  could  meet  inno- 
cently? Perdita  could  think  of  none — stayl  Might  it 
not  be  Merton  Fillmore  ? 

It  was  to  the  last  degree  improbable,  and  contrary  to 
reason :  but  it  might  nevertheless  be  Fillmore,  and  if  so, 
the  occasion  of  their  meeting  must  be  business  and  not 
love :  for  Perdita  was  tolerably  convinced  that  she  knew 
where  Merton  Fillmore's  heart  was.  But  what  business, 
that  could  not  be  better  discussed  in  Fillmore's  office, 
or  in  Marion's  house,  could  there  be  between  them  ?  or 
what  likelihood  was  there  that  a  man  like  Fillmore  would 
go  to  Vauxhall  on  any  consideration  ?  There  was  no  like- 
lihood of  it.  It  could  not  be  Fillmore,  and  yet  it  must 
be  Fillmore :  Perdita  wished  it  to  be  Fillmore :  though 
whether  she  wished  it  because  of  Fillmore,  or  because 
of  Marion,  or  because  of  herself,  she  could  not  perhaps 
have  told. 

This  episode,  be  the  significance  and  upshot  of  it  what 
they  might,  had  loomed  so  large  as  to  obscure  whatever 
other  grotesque  entertainment  Vauxhall  may  have  con- 
tained for  the  Marquise  Desmoines ;  and,  moreover,  the 
sight  of  Marion's  rashness  had  impelled  her  seriously 
to  reflect  upon  her  own.  She  resolved  to  go  home  with- 
out delay ;  and  having  tied  her  veil  more  closely  about 
her  face,  and  roused  Madame  Cabot,  who  had  dropped 
asleep  in  her  corner  of  the  box,  with  her  snuff-box  open 
on  her  lap,  she  took  that  lady's  bony  arm,  and  they 
went  forth  into  the  assemblage. 

Their  progress  was  not  so  rapid  as  they  could  have 
wished.  The  rack-punch  and  other  drinkables  had  made 
the  crowd  more  noisy  and  boisterous,  while  the  numbers 
had  certainly  not  diminished.  Perdita  had  need  of  all 
her  wits  and  courage  to  avoid  getting  into  trouble,  while 
Madame  Cabot  was  thoroughly  frightened,  and  gave  fre- 
quent vent  to  dismal  little  shrieks  and  moans,  which 
had  the  effect  of  attracting  the  attention  which  Perdita 


DUST.  307 

was  so  anxious  to  avoid.  All  at  once,  in  the  midst  of  the 
general  turmoil,  some  loud  cries  were  heard,  and  there 
was  a  rush  in  the  direction  whence  they  proceeded. 
"A  fight!  a  fight!"  cried  one  gentleman,  pressing  for- 
ward enthusiastically.  "A  fight? — 'tis  a  murder  I"  re- 
turned another.  "  'Tis  naught  but  a  fellow  in  a  fit," 
said  a  third,  who  had  mounted  on  a  lamp-post.  "  He  's 
drunk  I  put  him  out,  stifle  me  1"  exclaimed  another,  with 
the  righteous  indignation  of  inebriety.  "Come  along, 
Jack — 'tis  no  business  of  ours,"  remarked  a  gorgeously- 
attired  female,  seizing  her  companion  by  the  arm. 
Meanwhile  Perdita  and  Madame  Cabot  were  taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  rush  of  the  crowd  hi  one  direction  to  push 
their  way  in  the  other,  which  was  comparatively  de- 
serted. By  a  roundabout  route  they  were  approaching 
the  entrance,  and  had  just  passed  a  guardian  of  the 
peace,  who  was  thoughtfully  proceeding  in  a  direction 
at  right  angles  to  the  scene  of  the  disturbance,  when 
Perdita  suddenly  stopped  short,  much  to  Madame  Ca- 
bot's distress,  and  fixed  her  eyes  upon  a  group  that  was 
also  hastening  toward  the  gate  from  another  part  of  the 
grounds. 

It  consisted  of  a  man  and  two  women.  The  former 
was  fashionably  dressed,  had  rather  a  dandified  air,  and 
a  handsome,  bright,  good-humored  countenance.  The 
lady  on  his  arm  was  tall,  and  of  a  fine  figure ;  her  face, 
which  was  uncovered,  had  a  flush  of  excitement  upon 
it,  and  her  eyes  sparkled.  Close  behind  the  couple  fol- 
lowed a  woman  who  was  evidently  a  domestic.  Perdita 
had  no  ditticulty  in  recognizing  Marion,  and  that  ele- 
gant poet  and  fascinating  man  of  the  world,  Mr.  Thomas 
Moore.  As  they  passed  her,  she  gave  another  of  her  odd 
little  smiles. 

"So  much  for  my  charity!"  she  murmured  to  herself. 
"Poor  Philip  I— allons,  unuiame  1" 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  next  day,  London  awoke  to  a  sensation.  As  eariy 
as  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  it  was  known  that  some- 
thing astounding  had  happened ;  though  the  general 
public  still  lacked  information  as  to  what  it  was.  Had 
Bonaparte  escaped  from  St.  Helena,  and  landed  at 
Gravesend  ?  Was  his  Majesty  George  Third  dead  at 
last?  Had  the  Pope  been  proclaimed  Spiritual  and 
Temporal  ruler  of  Great  Britain  ?  Or  had  another  Gun- 
powder Plot  been  discovered  ?  City  men,  meeting  one 
another  on  their  way  to  their  shops  and  offices,  asked 
each  other  such  questions,  half  jocosely,  half  in  earnest. 
The  people  on  the  street  caught  up  echoes  of  these  dia- 
logues, and  spread  them  about  with  amplifications  and 
variations.  Up  till  noon,  only  a  handful  of  persons  knew 
the  truth  :  but  before  sunset  it  was  familiar  in  the  mouths 
of  millions.  The  great  banking  house  of  Bendibow 
Brothers  had  failed. 

Yes,  after  a  career  of  almost  unparalleled  success  and 
splendor,  the  mighty  structure,  founded,  nearly  a  cen- 
tury ago,  by  grim  Abraham  Bendibow,  had  fallen  with 
a  crash,  and  thousands  of  hapless  people  were  involved 
in  the  ruins.  Financial  England  was  shaken  to  its  foun- 
dations by  that  catastrophe  ;  on  the  Continent,  the  news 
created  only  less  dismay ;  but  in  London  itself  the  de- 
struction wrought  by  it  was  terribly  wide-spread  and 
apparent.  By  order  of  the  Government,  which  received 
early  information  of  what  had  happened,  a  company 
of  soldiers  was  sent  down  to  guard  the  bank, — a  wise 
precaution,  as  the  threatening  crowd  that  soon  began  to 


DUST.  309 

gather  in  front  of  it  proved.  A  very  ugly  and  turbulent 
crowd  it  was,  as  London  mobs  are  apt  to  be  :  and  in  this 
case  its  passions  were  inflamed  by  the  presence  in  the 
midst  of  it  of  numbers  of  luckless  depositors,  who  had 
lost  all  they  possessed,  and  were  shrieking  for  vengeance. 
Was  such  enormous  robbery  to  be  perpetrated,  and  the 
guilty  not  to  suffer?  A  scape-goat  was  wanted,  and 
must  be  had.  And  who  was  the  thief?  Who,  but  Sir 
Francis  Bendibow  ?  Where  was  Sir  Francis  Bendibow  ? 
Where  was  the  man  who  had  made  himself  rich  and  fat 
on  the  life-blood  of  thousands  of  honest  men  and  women  ? 
Was  he  in  the  bank  ?  The  captain  of  the  soldiers  as- 
sured the  questioners  that  he  was  not ;  that  the  bank 
contained  nothing  but  money,  and  very  little  of  that; 
and  this,  in  due  time,  would  be  fairly  divided  among 
those  who  could  show  a  claim  to  it.  For  the  rest,  he  had 
orders  to  fire  should  any  act  of  violence  be  attempted; 
and  he  was  ready  to  obey  his  orders.  Hereupon  the  mob 
laughed,  as  if  the  defiance  pleased  them  ;  but  it  \vas  evi- 
dent that  a  few  score  of  soldiers  would  not  be  a  mouth- 
ful for  such  a  roaring  multitude,  should  they  choose  to  at- 
tack. At  this  juncture,  however,  a  fresh  suggestion  was 
disseminated,  none  knew  how  :  but  it  was  caught  up  at 
once.  Sir  Francis  Bendibow  owned  a  town  mansion, 
only  a  mile  or  two  distant.  Why  not  look  for  him  there  ? 
That  was  a  more  likely  place  to  find  him ;  and  if  he  were 
gone,  at  all  events  the  house  and  its  contents  would  re- 
main, and  be  at  the  mob's  disposal.  Away,  then,  to  the 
Bendibow  mansion  1  There  were  no  naked  bayonets 
and  loaded  musket-barrels  there ;  but  there  were  valu- 
ables of  all  kinds  to  smash  or  to  purloin,  and  possibly 
there  were  provisions  in  the  larder,  and  wines  in  the 
cellar.  So  off  to  Sir  Francis  Bendibow's  1 

In  a  surprisingly  short  time  the  vast  mass  of  men  had 
begun  to  move  in  the  direction  of  their  new  object, 
sweeping  everything  before  them,  and  gaining  new  re- 


310  DUST. 

emits  at  every  street  corner.  Along  the  Strand  they 
poured,  a  seething  and  howling  torrent  of  lawless  hu- 
manity, swollen  continually  by  confluents  streaming 
down  the  narrow  streets  from  the  north ;  more  than  half 
of  them,  no  doubt,  ignorant  whither  they  were  bound, 
or  wherefore  they  were  gathered  together,  but  all  alike 
ready  for  mischief  and  exulting  in  disorder.  Meantime 
the  warning  of  their  approach  preceded  them,  and  shop- 
keepers hurriedly  put  up  their  shutters,  and  household- 
ers barred  their  doors.  Westward  they  roared  along, 
appalling  to  see  and  hear,  and  yet  grotesquely  fascinat- 
ing, insomuch  that  law-abiding  and  respectable  citizens, 
beholding  them,  were  seized  with  a  strange  longing  to 
cast  themselves  into  that  irresistible  current,  to  imbibe 
its  purpose  and  join  in  its  achievements.  Alas  for  Fran- 
cis Bendibow,  should  he  fall  into  the  clutches  of  these 
his  fellow-creatures  I 

As  the  front  of  the  mob  entered  the  street  in  which 
the  Bendibow  mansion  stood,  a  hackney  carriage  was 
being  driven  rapidly  out  of  it  in  the  opposite  direction. 
Before  it  could  turn  the  corner,  a  stone,  flung  at  random, 
struck  the  driver  on  the  head,  and  knocked  him  oif  the 
box.  At  this  mishap  the  mob  set  up  a  jeering  howl, 
and  a  number  of  them  rushed  forward  to  see  what  game 
they  had  brought  down.  But  hereupon  the  door  of  tho 
carriage  opened,  and  a  man  got  out,  wearing  a  heavy 
caped  cloak ;  an  elderly  man,  but  stout  and  broad- 
shouldered.  The  collar  of  his  cloak  was  turned  up,  and 
the  brim  of  his  hat  drawn  down  over  his  forehead,  so 
that  little  of  his  face  was  visible.  This  man,  after  cast- 
ing a  glance  toward  the  crowd,  mounted  quickly  on  the 
vacant  box,  and  gathering  up  the  reins  with  a  practiced 
hand,  laid  the  whip  sharply  across  the  horse's  back.  A 
ragged  scarecrow  sprang  at  the  animal's  bit  with  out- 
stretched hand,  but  the  lash  of  the  whip  smote  him 
across  the  eyes,  and  he  staggered  back  with  a  shriek  of 


DUST.  3ii 

agony.  The  vehicle  was  now  at  the  street  corner ;  but 
before  turning  it,  the  man  on  the  box,  taking  the  reins 
in  his  left  hand,  passed  his  right  beneath  his  cloak,  and 
drew  forth  a  long  pistol.  He  leveled  it  at  the  thick  of 
the  crowd,  which  was  now  swarming  before  the  doomed 
house,  and  fired.  The  ball  passed  through  the  neck  of  a 
gigantic  ruffian,  who  had  just  smashed  one  of  the  front 
windows  of  the  mansion,  and  buried  itself  in  the  heart 
of  a  pallid  stripling  a  couple  of  yards  further  on,  who 
had  been  swept  along  in  the  rush,  against  his  own  will, 
and  without  the  least  notion  of  what  all  the  uproar  was 
about.  Both  the  stricken  men  fell ;  and  the  hackney 
carriage  and  its  driver  disappeared. 

All  this  had  passed  so  rapidly  that  few  were  aware  it 
had  occurred,  or  knew  whence  the  shots  came,  or  what 
damage  they  had  done  ;  and  all  eyes  and  thoughts  being 
now  centered  on  the  house,  no  pursuit  of  the  fugitive 
was  attempted.  The  house,  of  course,  had  never  been 
designed  to  stand  a  siege,  nor  did  there  seem  to  be  any 
garrison  to  defend  it:  the  doors  and  windows  were 
speedily  battered  in,  and  the  mob,  meeting  with  no  re- 
sistance and  seeing  no  adversaries,  crowded  in  pell-mell, 
and  the  work  of  sack  and  destruction  began.  It  was 
speedily  apparent,  however,  that  the  amount  of  the 
spoil  was  altogether  out  of  proportion  with  the  number 
of  the  spoilers, — so  much  so  that  at  least  nine-tenths  of 
the  latter  must  needs  come  off,  not  only  empty-handed, 
but  without  even  the  gratification  of  having  destroyed 
anything.  In  half  an  hour  the  lately  splendid  residence 
of  the  proprietor  of  the  greatest  private  banking-house 
in  London  was  gutted  from  cellar  to  ridge-pole,  and  such 
of  its  contents  as  could  profitably  be  stolen  had  passed 
through  the  hands  of  hundreds  of  temporary  possessors, 
one  snatching  from  another,  until  everything  had  van- 
ished, it  was  impossible  to  say  where,  and  nobody — save 
those  who  had  been  crushed,  beaten,  trampled,  or  torn 


812  DUST. 

within  an  inch  of  their  lives  or  less — were  in  the  slightest 
degree  satisfied.  In  this  predicament,  a  very  obvious  re- 
source presented  itself.  If  Sir  Francis  Bendibow's  house 
could  not  fill  the  mob's  pockets,  there  were  in  London 
plenty  of  similar  houses  which  might,  in  the  aggregate, 
realize  the  desired  end  :  a  good  beginning  had  been 
made  here  ;  why  not  go  on  and  sack  all  Belgravia  ?  The 
suggestion  had  only  to  be  made  to  be  acted  upon  ;  and 
in  a  few  minutes  more  the  whole  vast  crowd  was  in  full 
cry  toward  Pall  Mall.  Here,  however,  an  unexpected 
and  chilling  obstacle  presented  itself.  The  Duke  of 
Wellington,  who  happened  to  have  come  over  from 
Paris  for  a  few  days,  and  had  received  information  of 
the  disturbance,  had  shortly  before  despatched  a  battery 
of  artillery  in  that  direction  :  and  as  the  mob  swept 
round  the  corner  of  the  Haymarket,  they  found  them- 
selves almost  on  the  gaping  muzzles  of  half-a-dozen  big 
cannon,  the  same  that  had  mowed  down  the  French  at 
Waterloo,  and  which  seemed  cordially  disposed  to  do  as 
much  for  the  cockney  roughs  in  Pall  Mall.  An  amazing 
scene  of  confusion  followed,  those  behind  being  as  yet  ig- 
norant of  the  passionate  desire  of  those  in  front  to  get  out 
of  the  way  ;  and  the  confusion  was  kindled  into  a  wild 
panic  when  the  tramp  of  horses  was  heard  on  the  left, 
and  the  black  plumes  and  glancing  breastplates  of  a 
hundred  heavy  dragoons  were  seen  charging  at  a  brisk 
trot  upon  the  flank  of  the  rioters.  This  charge,  and  the 
accompanying  arrest  of  many  of  the  ringleaders,  dis- 
persed the  mob  even  more  quickly  than  it  had  been 
assembled ;  it  plunged  headlong  wherever  an  opening 
presented  itself,  and  its  wicked  old  mother,  London, 
swallowed  it  up ;  as  Spenser's  monster  swallowed  her 
filthy  offspring,  at  the  attack  of  the  Red  Cross  Knight. 
All  mobs  are  cowardly  :  but  the  London  mob  is  the  most 
cowardly  of  all,  because  it  is  the  least  excitable,  and  is 
without  convictions. 


DUST.  313 

While  these  matters  were  in  progress,  the  hackney- 
carriage  had  gone  on  its  way  unmolested,  and  having 
reached  Oxford  street,  turned  eastward,  and  rattled 
along  swiftly  toward  the  city.  It  was  now  nearly  four 
o'clock,  and  the  early  London  dusk  had  begun  to  settle 
over  the  dingy  streets.  The  driver  sat  erect  and  square 
on  the  box,  turning  his  head  neither  to  the  right  nor 
left,  but  occasionally  touching  the  horse  smartly  with 
the  whip.  To  look  at  him,  one  would  have  supposed 
him  to  be  absorbed  in  a  gloomy  revery :  he  scarcely 
seemed  to  notice  where  he  was  going.  Presently,  how- 
ever, he  turned  down  a  street  to  the  right ;  and  in  ten 
minutes  more  drew  up  in  front  of  the  office  of  Mr.  Mer- 
ton  Fillmore,  Solicitor,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Cornhill. 
Throwing  the  reins  on  the  tired  animal's  back,  he  got 
leisurely  down  from  his  seat,  and  with  his  hat-brim  still 
pulled  down  over  his  brows,  he  entered  the  doorway  and 
went  up  stairs. 

He  was  about  to  lay  his  hand  on  the  handle  of  the 
office  door,  when  it  was  opened  from  within,  and  Fill- 
more,  with  his  hat  and  top  coat  on,  stepped  across  the 
threshold,  but  stopped  short  on  seeing  his  visitor.  For 
a  moment  he  stood  silent  and  motionless :  then  he 
grasped  the  other  by  the  arm  and  drew  him  into  the  office, 
where  the  clerks  were  locking  up  their  desks,  and  across 
it  into  the  inner  room,  closing  the  door  behind  them. 

"Well,  Bendibow,  I'm  glad  you  have  escaped,"  he 
said.  "  I  sent  after  you  to  the  bank  and  to  your  house 
this  forenoon,  but  you  were  at  neither  place.  Where 
did  you  spend  the  night  ?" 

"  At  an  inn  in  Pimlico." 

"  Your  house  is  probably  in  ruins  by  this  time." 

The  baronet  took  a  pistol  from  beneath  his  cloak,  and 
showed  Fillmore  that  it  had  been  discharged.  "I  ju.>t 
came  from  there,"  he  remarked.  "I  gave  an  account 
of  two  or  three  of  'em,  first." 


314  DUST. 

"  Of  course  you  know  your  life  is  in  danger  ?" 

"I'm  dangerous  myself,"  replied  the  other,  with  a 
short  laugh. 

"You  had  better  lose  no  time  in  getting  out  of  Lon- 
don." 

"  Not  I !    I  'm  satisfied.    I  shall  give  myself  up." 

"  That  may  be  the  best  thing  you  can  do.  Did  you 
know  this  was  coming  on  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so.  It  had  to  come  some  time.  I  haven't 
known  much,  one  way  or  another,  lately.  %  If  Tom  had 
been  alive,  I  should  have  tried  to  stave  it  off.  It 's  all 
one  to  me  now,  damn  'em  I  I  wish  I  could  have  ruined 
all  England." 

"  You  have  done  enough,  Bendibow.  What  was  the 
cause  of  this  ?" 

The  baronet  laughed  again.  "  The  cause  of  it  ?  Ask 
the  historians  of  the  eighteenth  century.  If  Abraham 
Bendibow  had  never  succeeded,  I  never  should  have 
failed.  It  was  bound  to  happen,  from  the  beginning. 
Have  you  got  anything  to  drink,  Fillmore  ?" 

The  lawyer  shook  his  head.  "  And  you  had  better  let 
brandy  alone  for  the  present,"  he  said.  "Your  head 
has  not  been  right,  as  it  is,  for  the  last  four  months." 

"My  head  will  last  my  time,"  said  Sir  Francis,  care- 
lessly. "1  can  bring  my  wits  together  when  there's 
need  for  it.  Four  months,  is  it  ?  Should  have  thought 
it  was  four  days — or  a  century !  Tom  is  dead  .  .  . 
did  you  know  that  ?  You  don't  know  what  killed  him, 
though !  "Well,  give  me  something  to  eat,  then :  I  'm 
hungry." 

Fillmore  opened  the  door,  and  ordered  the  clerk  to 
bring  some  bread  and  meat  from  the  neighboring  tavern. 
Sir  Francis  sat  heavily  down  at  the  table,  and  supported 
his  head  between  his  hands.  He  was  greatly  changed 
from  the  courtly  and  fastidious  baronet  of  last  summer. 
There  was  something  coarse  and  reckless  about  him. 


DUST.  315 

The  germ  of  it  had  always  been  there,  perhaps  ;  but  it 
had  been  kept  out  of  sight  till  now.  Fillmore  leaned  in 
thought  against  the  mantelpiece,  with  his  arms  folded. 
After  a  while  the  clerk  came  in,  with  the  bread  and 
meat.  He  put  it  down  before  Sir  Francis,  who  roused 
himself,  and  began  to  eat  ravenously.  When  he  had 
finished,  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  the  solicitor. 

"You're  a  good  fellow,  after  all,  Fillmore,"  he  said. 
"  I  '11  tell  you  all  about  it :  'twill  be  known  soon  enough, 
without  my  telling.  Ever  hear  of  Rackett  's  ?" 

"  The  gambling  house  in  Jermyn  street  ?" 

"  That 's  it.  Well,  that  was  Bendibow  Brothers— that 
was  the  real  place.  It  brought  me  in  hundreds  per 
cent.,  where  the  bank  brought  me  in  tens.  We  should 
have  gone  down  long  ago  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Rackett 's. 
But  the  devil  was  in  it  all." 

"  I  knew  you  had  something  of  the  sort  going  on  ;  but 
you  never  chose  to  explain,  and  I  didn't  care  to  make 
inquiries.  But  I  never  thought  of  Rackett 's.  'Tis  the 
most  scandalous  place  in  London." 

"  'Tis  nothing  now,  but  four  walls  and  a  bailiff. 
Scandalous,  eh  ?  Well,  so  it  was  I  I  've  had  there,  in 
one  night,  the  Prince  of  Wales,  Brummel,  Fox,  Rivers, 
Aubrey,  and  Dennis  O'Kelly.  Dick  England — do  you 
remember  him  ?  He  was  a  great  pal  of  mine  a  score  of 
years  ago.  Tippoo  Smith — he  was  another.  Egad,  I 
had  'em  all  1  They  never  knew  where  their  money  went 
to — except  those  who  were  in  the  secret:  never  sus- 
pected Frank  Bendibow  of  having  any  connection  with 
such  scandalous  doings  1  We  had  Lady  Kendall  of  Ross 
there  once ;  and  we  made  his  lordship  pay  one  hundred 
thousand  pounds  down,  to  save  my  lady's  reputation. 
Dear  at  the  price,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"Aye,  you  were  a  clever  man,  Bendibow,  ill  as  your 
cleverness  has  served  you  in  the  end.  And  in  nothing 


316  DUST. 

more  clever  than  in  the  way  you  kept  your  connection 
with  this  business  concealed.  Something  was  always 
suspected,  hut  nothing  was  known." 

"No,  nothing  was  known.  Do  you  know  the  reason? 
'  Twas  because  I  knew  how  to  choose  men,  and  how  to 
make  them  work  for  me.  Frank  Bendibow  was  a  Na- 
poleon, in  his  own  way ;  but  he's  had  his  Waterloo ! 
The  only  one  who  ever  found  me  out  was  that  jade  Per- 
dita  ;  and  she  forced  me  to  pay  her  ten  thousand  pounds 
for  it,  when  I  could  easier  have  spared  her  as  many 
drops  of  my  heart's  blood.  I  was  a  fool  not  to  have 
taken  her  into  partnership  ten  years  ago,  instead  of  mar- 
rying her  to  that  French  imbecile.  She  is  worth  more 
than  the  best  dozen  men  I  ever  came  across,  begad  I" 

"  She  is  worth  too  much  ever  to  have  mixed  herself 
up  in  any  such  thievish  business,"  said  Fillmore  sternly. 

"Maybe  she  is  :  'tis  all  over  now,"  returned  the  other 
carelessly.  "  I  'm  glad  to  be  at  the  end  of  it.  They've 
been  bothering  me  for  weeks  past,  curse  'em !  bringing 
me  their  fears  and  complaints,  and  asking  me  what  they 
should  do.  I  bade  'em  go  to  the  devil:  I  had  other 
things  to  think  about.  If  Tom  had  been  alive  .  .  . 
well,  no  matter  I  I  believe  that  scoundred,  Catnip,  that 
I  took  out  of  the  street,  damme,  and  had  in  my  own 
office,  and  made  a  prosperous  man  of — I  believe  he  was 
the  one  who  betrayed  us.  You  call  me  a  swindler,  Mer- 
ton  Fillmore  ;  but  if  every  man  had  been  as  square  as 
I've  been,  I  wouldn't  be  here  now." 

"  You  are  what  I  would  have  been,  under  the  same  con- 
ditions," said  Fillmore.  "I  neither  condemn  nor  praise 
any  man.  Had  you  warning  of  the  crash,  yesterday  ?" 

"At  ten  o'clock  last  night,  at  Yauxhall." 

"At  Vauxhall  ?" 

"  That  surprises  you,  eh  ?  'Twas  our  trysting-place, 
where  we  met  to  concoct  our  nefarious  schemes,  as  they 
say  in  the  play  :  and  the  safest  one  we  could  have  cho- 


DUST.  317 

sen.  Well,  I  thought  I  was  ready  for  anything;  but 
when  they  told  me  that,  I  called  out,  and  struck  the  fel- 
low down,  and  I  don't  know  what  happened  for  a  while 
after  that.  Here  's  a  queer  thing  :  I  had  a  notion  I  saw 
that  Lockhart  girl — the  one  that  married  Lancaster — 
just  before  I  dropped ;  and  again,  at  the  inn,  I  thought 
I  heard  her  voice.  At  the  inn  I  awoke  this  morning, 
and  that 's  all  I  know  about  it.  Faces  and  voices  some- 
times come  before  a  man  that  way,  when  he  's  a  bit  be- 
side himself.  But  what  made  me  think  of  her,  eh  ?" 
He  arose  as  he  spoke,  and  began  to  button  up  his  cloak. 

"  Is  that  all  you  have  to  tell  me  ?"  asked  Fillmore. 

"All?  ISTo.  That's  all  at  present.  The  words  in 
which  I  tell  you  all — you,  or  any  one  else — will  be  the 
last  words  that  Frank  Bendibow  speaks.  What  do  you 
care  ?  What  does  anybody  care  ?  Let  'em  find  out,  if 
they  can.  I  shall  be  there  :  I  am  not  going  to  run  away, 
as  Grantley  did." 

"  You  must  come  home  and  spend  the  night  with  me." 

"  No  :  my  board  and  lodging  will  be  at  the  expense 
of  the  government  from  this  day  on.  Say  what  you  like 
of  Eackett's,  there  was  virtue  enough  in  it  to  secure  me 
that,  at  any  rate.  Thank  you  all  the  same,  Fillmore : 
you  're  the  last  man  I  shall  ever  give  thanks  to.  Well, 
I  'm  off.  Good  day  to  you." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?" 

Bendibow  named  the  station  at  which  he  proposed  to 
surrender  himself. 

"If  you  are  resolved  to  go,  I  will  drive  you  there," 
said  Fillmore.  "  But  you  had  better  accept  my  invita- 
tion, for  one  night  at  least." 

The  baronet  shook  his  head.  "  My  liabilities  are  heavy 
enough  already ;  I  am  not  going  to  risk  being  the  cause 
of  your  house  being  used  as  mine  has  been.  I  'm  poison : 
but  I  can  prevent  your  taking  me." 

And  with  this  jest,  he  led  the  way  out  of  the  office. 


CHAPTER  XXXIT 

IT  had  been  Fillmore's  intention  to  call  on  Perdita 
the  next  morning,  and  acquaint  her  with  the  details 
of  what  had  happened.  She  was,  theoretically  at  all 
events,  nearly  interested  in  the  matter.  She  was  Ben- 
dibow's  adopted  daughter,  and  his  credit  or  disgrace 
must  more  or  less  affect  her.  She  might  desire  to  take 
some  action  about  the  affair,  and,  as  Bendibow  was 
already  in  the  hands  of  the  authorities,  and  seemed 
inclined  to  be  somewhat  outspoken,  there  was  no  time 
to  be  lost.  Whatever  defense  of  the  unfortunate  baronet 
was  to  be  attempted  would  naturally  be  intrusted  to 
Fillmore;  and  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  be  ac- 
quainted with  the  views  and  wishes  of  all  concerned. 
Perdita,  moreover,  was  capable  not  only  of  having  de- 
sires, but  of  suggesting  ingenious  and  practical  methods 
of  accomplishing  them :  and  though  Fillmore  was  not 
accustomed  to  ask  advice  from  his  clients,  or  to  accept 
it  when  offered,  he  was  ready  to  make  an  exception  in 
Perdita's  case.  She  had  brains,  sound  judgment,  and 
quickness  of  wit  superior  to  Fillmore's  own — more  elas- 
tic and  adaptable.  Furthermore,  the  lawyer  was  in  love 
with  the  lady,  and  was  not  the  man  to  forego  any  op- 
portunity of  strengthening  his  relations  with  her.  He 
had  resolved  never  to  give  her  up,  and  in  order  to  carry 
out  that  resolve,  it  was  indispensable,  in  the  case  of  a 
woman  like  Perdita,  to  use  every  advantage  at  his  dis- 
posal. 

He  had  arranged  to  make  his  call  as  early  as  ten 
o'clock,  which,  after  all,  was  not  so  early  seventy  years 
318 


DUST.  819 

ago  .as  it  is  now.  But  fortune,  who  often  leads  men  to 
destruction  by  simply  improving  the  grade  of  the  path 
they  are  already  inclined  to  travel,  so  arranged  events 
that  Fillmore  received,  while  he  was  yet  at  breakfast,  a 
short  note  from  the  Marquise  herself,  dispatched  to  him 
from  her  bed-chamber  by  special  messenger,  requesting 
his  speedy  presence  at  her  house.  "You  will  know, 
without  my  telling  you,  why  I  want  to  speak  to  you," 
she  wrote :  "and  I  send  to  you  thus  early  so  that  you 
may  be  able  to  come  before  you  go  to  the  city.  I  shall 
be  expecting  you  by  nine  o'clock.  Pardon  my  haste  and 
informality,  mon  ami:  I  have  confidence  in  you." 

This  communication  no  doubt  improved  the  lawyer's 
appetite,  and  imparted  a  more  exquisite  flavor  to  the 
coffee  that  he  quaffed  from  the  delicate  cup  of  painted 
Meissen  porcelain.  He  allowed  the  little  note  to  remain 
open  on  the  table  beside  him ;  he  scrutinized  its  curious 
chirography,  at  once  rounded  and  sharp,  bold,character- 
istic,  and  yet  difficult  to  read.  A  faint,  very  faint  per- 
fume emanated  from  it,  reminding  him  of  the  writer; 
her  lovely  hand  had  rested  upon  this  paper ;  her  breath 
had  touched  it.  The  lawyer  bent  down,  perhaps  to  ex- 
amine it  more  closely  ....  At  that  moment  the  ser- 
vant entered,  to  inquire  when  Mr.  Fillmore  wanted  his 
carriage.  Mr.  Fillmore  raised  his  head  quickly,  hemmed, 
pulled  up  his  collar,  and  replied  that  fifteen  minutes  be- 
fore nine  would  be  time  enough.  The  servant  withdrew, 
and  Fillmore,  glancing  at  the  mirror  opposite,  detected 
an  unmistakable  blush  on  his  ordinarily  pale  cheeks. 
He  bit  his  lip ;  then,  catching  up  the  letter,  he  kissed  it 
and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

At  five  minutes  past  nine  he  arrived  at  the  Mar- 
quise's house  and  was  immediately  ushered  into  a 
charming  ante-room  adjoining  the  lady's  chamber.  In 
a  few  moments  the  door  of  the  latter  opened,  and  the 
Marquise  appeared.  She  had  on  a  flowing  dressing- 


320  DUST. 

gown  of  white  cachemire  lined  with  quilted  satin  and 
bordered  with  flowers  worked  in  gold  thread.  Her  bright 
reddish  hair  was  drawn  up  to  the  top  of  her  head,  re- 
vealing the  beautiful  line  and  pose  of  her  white  neck ; 
and  her  slender  feet,  encased  in  bronze  slippers  and  open- 
work silk  stockings,  peeped  out  beneath  the  embroidered 
hem  of  her  petticoat.  She  was  fresh  and  rosy  from  her 
bath,  and  had  all  the  fragrance  and  loveliness  of  a  sweet- 
petaled  flower. 

She  put  her  warm  hand  in  the  lawyer's  cool,  firm  clasp, 
smiled  upon  him,  and  bade  him  be  seated.  "You  are 
very  good  to  come  to  me  so  promptly,"  she  said,  "and 
to  show  my  appreciation  of  your  courtesy,  I  will  pro- 
ceed to  business  at  once,  and  give  you  your  liberty  as 
soon  as  possible.  You  have  not  been  able  to  see  Sir 
Francis,  I  suppose?  I  know  that  he  has  been  arrested." 

"He  gave  himself  up  voluntarily,"  said  Fillmore. 
"He  had  ample  opportunity  to  escape,  if  he  had  wished 
it.  I  offered  to  help  him  off;  but  he  refused." 

"  You  .   .*  .    ?    You  did  see  him,  then  ?" 

"He came  to  my  office  in  the  midst  of  the  disturbance. " 

Perdita's  dark,  sparkling  eyes  fixed  themselves  stead- 
fastly upon  the  lawyer.  "  In  that  case,"  she  said  slowly, 
"  he  probably  told  you  .  .  .  Will  you  tell  me  all  that 
passed  ?" 

Fillmore  complied,  and  Perdita  listened  to  his  story 
with  close  attention.  After  it  was  told,  she  sat  for  a 
while  with  her  forefinger  against  her  chin,  meditating. 

"I  don't  know  whether  to  be  pleased  or  displeased," 
she  remarked  at  length.  '"Tis  rather  exciting,  at  all 
events.  I  knew  about  Rackett's,  and  all  that :  I  knew 
more  than  he  ever  suspected.  But  I  thought  he  was 
clever  enough  to  secure  himself.  I  'm  not  sure  but  I 
might  have  helped  him,  if  he  had  applied  to  me." 

"Even  if  your  means  would  have  sufficed,  he  was  past 
helping." 


DUST.  821 

"  I  should  have  done  it  for  my  own  sake,  not  for  his," 
said  Perdita,  with  a  smile  of  cynical  candor.  "  I  care 
for  what  happens  to  him  only  as  it  may  affect  me.  You 
won't  be  obliged,  sir,  to  remodel  your  estimate  of  my 
character  on  the  idea  that  I  am  given  to  self-sacrifice 
And  I  should  certainly  not  begin  with  Sir  Francis.  On 
the  contrary  1" 

"I  understand.  You  think  his  disgrace  may  affect 
you  ?" 

"  I  only  fear  that  he  may  not  be  disgraced  enough." 

"  I  don't  understand  so  well  as  I  thought." 

"You  do  your  understanding  injustice.  If  Sir  Francis 
was  a  villain  from  the  beginning,  I  am  comfortable. 
If  that  old  story  about  him  and  my  father  should  turn 
out  to  my  father's  credit,  then  I  should  be  the  daughter 
of  an  honest  man,  who  was  wickedly  abused ;  and  that 
will  be  to  my  advantage.  If  this  man  who  was  lately 
murdered  proves  to  have  been  really  my  father,  all 
the  better.  The  opposite  alternatives  would  be  what  I 
should  not  like.  Now,  as  Sir  Francis  has  given  himself 
up,  'tis  likely  he  means  to  make  a  full  confession :  and 
meanwhile  I  'm  in  suspense.  "What  is  your  opinion  about 
him  ?" 

"I  have  been  on  friendly  terms  with  him  for  a  good 
many  years." 

"And  you  mean  to  stick  by  him,  right  or  wrong?" 

"  As  against  people  in  general — yes." 

"  Does  that  mean  that  you  are  going  to  sacrifice  your 
conscience  only  in  special  cases  ?" 

"I  could  do  anything  to  serve  you,"  said  Fillmore, 
with  measured  emphasis. 

"And  I  am  to  consider  it  a  compliment  if  you  betray 
an  old  friend  to  please  a  new  acquaintance  ?  You  are 
severe,  Mr.  Fillmore  I" 

She  said  this  smilingly  but  the  lawyer  could  not  tell 
whether  she  were  offended,  or  were  only  teasing  him.  If 


822  DUST. 

he  had  needed  any  assurance  that  she  was  not  a  woman 
to  be  easily  duped  by  flattery,  he  had  it  now.  He  had 
intended  merely  to  indicate  that  he  would  not  lightly  be 
false  to  a  trust,  but  she  had  contrived  to  make  him  im- 
ply nearly  the  reverse.  His  real  sentiments  in  the  mat- 
ter were,  in  fact,  honorable  enough,  though  he  was 
sensible  of  a  fatal  fascination  about  Perdita,  stronger 
than  the  attractions  of  virtue.  For  a  moment  he  hesi- 
tated, undecided  whether  to  draw  back  now  and  finally, 
or  to  go  on. 

"Do  you  give  me  up?"  asked  Perdita,  with  a  little 
laugh. 

"  Never  1"  said  he,  with  a  feeling  that  he  was  pledging 
himself  rather  for  the  possibilities  of  the  future  than  for 
anything  in  the  present.  "Not  that  there  is  anything 
in  this  affair  to  impair  the  most  sensitive  principles,"  he 
added,  smiling.  "Professional  etiquette  is  the  most  I 
have  to  consider,  and  that  is  not  involved  in  the  present 
question.  As  I  was  saying,  I  have  been  in  the  way  of 
knowing  a  good  deal  about  Bendibow,  and  my  opinion 
is  that  the  more  complete  his  confession  is,  the  less 
cause  you  will  have  for  anxiety.  At  the  same  time, 
from  something  he  let  fall,  I  doubt  whether  his  confes- 
sion will  be  entirely  without  reserve." 

"  What  will  he  hold  back  ?" 

"  I  know  of  nothing  in  particular." 

"Anything  about  the  murder  of  my  father,  for  in- 
stance ?" 

"Do  you  suspect  him  of  knowing  anything  about 
that  ?"  demanded  Fillmore,  feeling  astonished. 

"  One  cannot  help  seeing  that  if  the  robber  had  been 
able  to  rifle  his  victim's  pockets,  and  had  taken  away 
that  packet  among  other  things,  it  would  have  been  con- 
venient for  Sir  Francis." 

"  But  if  the  contents  of  the  packet  were  compromising 
to  any  one,  the  thief  would  have  demanded  a  ransom — " 


DUST.  823 

"Which  the  person  compromised  would  have  paid,— 
if  he  had  not  already  paid  it  in  advance,"  said  Perdita 
composedly. 

"I  don't  think  Bendibow  had  it  in  him  to  go  such 
lengths,"  said  Fillmore,  after  a  long  pause.  "Besides, 
the  fact  that  his  son  was  killed  at  the  same  time  ..." 

"It  was  a  dark  night,"  remarked  Perdita.  "How- 
ever, I  don't  really  believe  it,  either.  But  I've  made 
up  my  mind  that  I  want  that  packet.  Sir  Francis' 
confession  may  agree  with  it ;  or — 'tis  just  possible — he 
may  try  to  tell  a  different  story,  in  which  event  the 
packet  might  be  useful." 

"  Very  true.  The  packet  is  still  in  Mrs.  Lancaster's 
possession,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"I  gave  it  to  her,  for  fear  of  my  own  curiosity.  But 
'tis  another  thing  now.  I  must  know  what  is  in  it. 
And  soon ! " 

"  Shall  I  get  it  for  you  ?" 

"If  you  will  be  so  kind  .  .  .  !N"o,  on  the  whole,  I 
think  you  had  better  not.  Under  the  circumstances, 
Mrs.  Lancaster  would  probably  prefer  to  have  me  apply 
to  her  directly.  But  when  I  've  got  it,  I  shall  want  to 
consult  with  you  about  it." 

"You  may  command  me  at  any  time,  madame." 

Perdita  rose,  and  the  lawyer,  though  he  would  gladly 
have  stayed  longer,  had  no  choice  but  to  rise  also. 
"Sir,"  said  the  Marquise,  after  contemplating  him  a 
moment,  "  I  wish  you  would  be  consistent  I" 

Fillmore  bowed,  somewhat  apprehensively :  for  al- 
though Perdita  had  given  him  to  know  that  she  was 
not  afraid  of  him,  he  was  beginning  to  be  a  little  afraid 
of  her.  Perceiving  that  he  did  not  catch  her  drift,  she 
explained  herself. 

"You  are  one  of  the  most  agreeable  and  sensible 
men  I  ever  met,  on  all  points  but  one,"  she  said.  "Be 
sensible  on  that  too !" 


334  DUST. 

"You  might  as  well  ask  me  not  to  be  sensible  to 
hunger,  or  to  fire,"  he  replied,  drawing  a  deep  breath 
and  looking  upon  her  with  a  sort  of  sullen  ardor. 

"I  have  kept  a  part  of  my  promise  to  you,"  con- 
tinued the  Marquise;  "I  have  showed  you  something 
of  what  I  really  am.  There  is  nothing  to  love  here," 
— she  laid  her  finger  on  her  breast — "for  beauty  alone 
is  not  lovable,  to  a  man  like  you.  And  you  have  intel- 
lect enough :  you  need  something  besides  intellect  in  a 
wife :  and  that  something  is  just  what  I  can  never  give." 

"  You  have  it  to  give,"  interrupted  Fillmore,  "  whether 
you  give  it  to  me  or  not." 

"And  what  most  annoys  me,"  she  went  on,  "is  that 
unless  you  come  to  your  senses  soon,  I  shall  cease  to 
like  you,  and  therefore  to  be  able  to  make  use  of  you. 
So,  if  you  really  care  for  me,  you  must  not  love  me  any 
more." 

"It  is  no  use,"  said  Fillmore,  with  a  slow  movement 
of  his  head :  and,  without  awaiting  any  further  argu- 
ment, he  took  his  leave. 

"And  now  for  you,  master  Philip!"  said  the  Mar- 
quise to  herself,  when  she  was  alone.  What  she  intended 
by  such  an  exclamation  there  was  nothing  to  indicate : 
but  she  called  her  maid,  and  having  disembarrassed  her- 
self of  her  dressing-gown,  she  proceeded  rapidly  to  com- 
plete her  toilet,  and  gave  orders  for  her  carriage  to  be 
at  the  door  at  half-past  ten.  A  few  minutes  later  she 
was  being  driven  in  the  direction  of  the  Lancasters' 
house. 

At  this  juncture,  however,  fortune  again  interposed 
to  hasten  matters,  by  bringing  Philip  to  the  corner  of 
Hanover  Square  just  as  the  Marquise's  carriage  was  en- 
tering it.  He  recognized  the  livery,  and  paused,  raising 
his  hat ;  but  she  had  already  caught  sight  of  him,  and 
the  carriage  drew  up  to  the  sidewalk.  Philip  appeared 
at  the  door,  wearing  a  rather  grave  face.  Perdita  greeted 


DUST.  825 

him  with  radiant  composure.  His  dejection  recovered 
a  little  under  this  tonic;  and  when  she  followed  it  up 
hy  inviting  him  to  take  a  seat  beside  her,  he  felt  better, 
and  complied.  By  a  flash  of  memory,  Perdita  recol- 
lected a  former  occasion,  on  which  she  had  entreated 
him  to  do  the  same  thing,  and  he  had  refused ;  although 
then  he  had  been  a  single  man,  whereas  now  he  was 
married:  this  recollection  made  the  Marquise  smile 
secretly.  Meanwhile  Philip  took  his  seat  in  total  un- 
suspiciousness  of  what  was  passing  in  her  mind. 

"  Tell  me  where  you  want  to  go,"  she  said,  "and  I  '11 
drive  you  there." 

"  I  was  going  to  call  on  you." 

"How  charmingly  attentive  of  you!  In  that  case 
.  .  .  suppose  we  carry  out  my  original  intention  of— 
driving  round  the  Park." 

"It  would  give  me  great  pleasure,"  he  answered: 
whereupon  she  gave  the  direction  to  the  coachman, 
"  Have  you  a  new  poem  to  read  to  me  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  haven't  written  a  line  for  six  weeks.  I  was  coming 
about  this  Bendibow  aflair.  Of  course  you've  heard 
of  it?" 

"That  his  house  was  ransacked,  and  he  arrested — 
yes." 

"Well:  my  wife  ....  we  thought  you  might  want 
those  papers  that  you  left  with  my  wife.  There's  no 
knowing  what  may  happen,  you  know." 

"  You  haven't  got  them  with  you  ?" 

"  Here  they  are,"  he.  answered,  producing  the  packet. 

"They  may  be  needed;  there's  no  telling,  as  you 
say.  It  was  very  kind  of  your  wife — of  you,  that  is,  to 
think  of  it.  You  are  all  well  and  happy— that  goes 
without  saying?" 

"Oh,  yes:  Marion  is  not  very  well  this  morning, 
though." 

* '  Indeed  1    What  ails  her  ?" 


326  DUST. 

"  A  headache,  I  believe.  I  don't  know.  I  was  away 
for  a  day  or  two  and  she  has  not  been  quite  herself  since 
I  came  back." 

"Surely  that's  only  what  might  be  expected,  after 
being  deprived  of  you  so  long  !" 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  Philip,  laconically. 

"  We  poor  women,  you  know,  are  not  permitted  'to 
amuse  ourselves  when  our  lords  are  away.  We  can 
only  stay  at  home  until  they  come  back." 

"That's  the  principle  :  but  not  always  the  practice," 
said  Philip,  with  a  grim  look. 

"You  have  not  found  it  out?"  exclaimed  the  Mar- 
quise in  a  startled  tone ;  and  then,  as  if  perceiving 
that  she  had  committed  herself,  she  hurriedly  added, 
"  Of  course,  principle  and  practice  must  always  differ 
more  or  less.  Human  beings  aren't  made  by  rule  of 
thumb." 

Philip  at  first  made  no  reply,  but  a  painful  expression 
passed  over  his  face,  leaving  it  gloomier  than  before. 
At  length  he  said,  "  I  'm  not  a  man  who  lets  himself  be 
blindfolded  to  save  trouble.  You  and  I  have  known 
each  other  some  time,  Perdita.  Will, you  answer  me 
truly — will  you  tell  me  what  you  know  ?  for  I  see  you 
do  know  something." 

"I'm  not  likely  to  forget  the  past,"  answered  the 
beautiful  Marquise:  "I  shall  remember  it  at  least  as 
long  as  this  scar  lasts," — and  as  she  spoke  she  placed 
her  hand  on  the  upper  part  of  her  bosom.  "But  it  is 
never  true  friendship  to  interfere  between  husband  and 
wife.  If  you  see  anything  that  troubles  you,  give  it  the 
best  interpretation  possible,  and  forget  it.  Very  likely 
— most  likely — there  is  no  harm  in  it.  One  must  not 
expect,  or  wish,  to  know  all  the  secrets  even  of  the 
person  they  have  married.  Does  Marion  know  all 
yours  ?" 

"I  thank  you  for  your  advice,"  said  Philip,  in  a  tone 


DUST.  827 

that  intimated  he  did  not  mean  to  follow  it.  "  It  seems 
you  are  aware  that  my  wife  spent  a  night  away  from 
home.  Probably  you  also  know  where,  and  with  whom. 
I  shall  know  that  in  time ;  but  I  would  rather  learn  it 
from  you  than  from  any  one  else." 

"  I  could  tell  you  nothing  that  would  really  enlighten 
you,  Philip.  Your  best  security  for  your  wife's  conduct 
is  the  good  you  know  of  her.  Be  satisfied  with  that. 
It  was  enough  to  make  you  marry  her.  It  should  be 
enough  to  make  you  happy  in  your  marriage." 

"Yes,  I  know  all  that!"  said  Philip,  impatiently. 
After  a  short  silence,  he  added,  turning  toward  her, 
"  You  are  a  true  friend,  Perdita.  May  I  come  and  talk 
to  you,  some  time  ?  The  world  is  a  lonely  place !" 

"If  I  can  make  it  less  lonely  for  you — cornel"  she 
answered. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

MEANWHILE  the  inscrutable  Providence,  whose  ap- 
parent neglect  of  the  affairs  of  men  is  only  less  remark- 
able than  its  seeming  interference  with  them,  had 
decreed  that  these  affairs  with  which  we  are  at  present 
occupied  should  be  dignified  ~by  the  participation  in  them 
of  Lady  Flanders.  For,  at  about  the  hour  when  Philip 
and  Perdita  were  driving  in  the  Park,  and  discussing 
the  former's  domestic  situation,  Mr.  Thomas  Moore 
was  calling  upon  the  elderly  aristocrat,  and  the  conver- 
sation between  them  was  taking  a  similar  direction. 

Precisely  what  passed  on  this  occasion,  it  is  unneces- 
sary at  this  moment  to  inquire;  but  the  reader  may 
be  reminded  that  Mr.  Moore  was  a  gentleman,  and 
incapable  of  wantonly  betraying  any  lady's  confidence; 
and  he  may  further  be  informed  that  the  genial  poet's 
acquaintance  with  Lady  Flanders  was  intimate  and  of 
old  standing.  Her  attitude  toward  him  was,  indeed, 
of  a  quasi-maternal  character:  and  in  the  present  in- 
stance his  communications,  whatever  they  were,  were 
prompted  in  great  measure  by  his  recognition  of  her 
great  social  influence,  and  by  the  fact  that  her  declared 
opinion,  favorable  or  unfavorable,  of  any  person,  was  apt 
to  go  a  long  way  toward  making  or  marring  that  per- 
son's social  reputation.  "When  Mr.  Moore  left  her  lady- 
ship's presence,  she  patted  him  on  the  shoulder  and 
called  him  a  good  boy ;  and  he  issued  from  her  door 
with  the  light  of  conscious  virtue  glistening  on  his  in- 
genuous forehead. 

Next  morning  Lady  Flanders  arose  early,  and  in  the 
328 


LUST.  329 

course  of  her  toilet  preparations  she  fell  into  chat,  as 
her  custom  was,  with  her  maid  Christine,  an  attractive 
young  person  of  German  extraction,  deft  of  hand  and 
soothing  of  voice,  who  could  design  and  elevate  a  head- 
dress in  a  manner  to  please  the  most  exacting  elderly 
aristocrat  imaginable.  Christine  was  a  great  favorite 
with  her  mistress,  and  was  the  only  human  heing  of 
either  sex  to  whom  that  lady  was  uniformly  indulgent 
and  good-humored.  Christine,  for  her  part,  was  much 
attached  to  Lady  Flanders ;  but,  with  the  perversity 
and  short-sightedness  of  persons  in  her  enviable  condi- 
tion of  life,  she  had  lately  taken  it  into  her  head  to  lose 
her  heart ;  and  the  individual  who  had  won  it  was  a  Mr. 
Catnip,  whose  name  has  been  once  or  twice  mentioned 
in  this  history,  as  a  servant  of  Sir  Francis  Bendibow. 
It  would  appear  that  Christine  and  her  cavalier  had  met 
to  enjoy  each  other's  society  the  evening  previous ;  and 
Mr.  Catnip  had  at  that  time  confided  to  Christine  a  cu- 
rious circumstance  which  had  happened  to  come  under 
his  observation  the  day  before  at  Vauxhall.  After  Chris- 
tine had  repeated  to  her  mistress  the  main  points  of  Mr. 
Catnip's  story,  her  ladyship  interrupted  her. 

"Of  course  you  understand,  Christine,"  she  said, 
"that  I  am  convinced  to  begin  with  that  your  Catnip 
has  been  telling  you  a  pack  of  lies,  and  that  there  's  not 
a  word  of  truth  in  the  tale  from  beginning  to  end.  'Tis 
very  foolish  of  you  to  have  anything  at  all  to  say  to  such 
a  fellow,  and  my  advice  to  you  is  to  drop  him  at  once. 
Is  he  willing  to  make  affidavit  that  'twas  really  the  Mar- 
quise Desmoines  he  saw  there  ?" 

"Oh,  yiss,  madame!  He  stand  close  by  de  box  on 
which  Madame  la  Marquise  sit,  and  he  recognize  de  ring 
on  her  finger,  and  her  tone  as  she  speak  with  her  com- 
panion. They  sit  on  de  box  next  to  Madame  Lan- 
caster." 

"Could  she  and  Mrs.  Lancaster  see  each  other?" 


830  DUST. 

"•Not  whiles  dey  sit  so;  but  soon  Madame  Lancas- 
ter get  up  and  go  out  in  front,  and  den  Madame  la 
Marquise  .  .  ." 

"  Aye,  aye :  a  mighty  pretty  story  !  And  so  then  Sir 
Francis  fainted  away,  did  he,  and  Mrs.  Lancaster  got  a 
carriage,  and  Catnip  followed  it  ?  .  .  .  Upon  my  word, 
Christine,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  to  listen 
to  such  trash :  much  more  to  repeat  it  to  me.  Take 
care  you  never  open  your  mouth  about  it  to  any  one 
else,  that 'sail." 

"Oh,  not  in  de  least,  madame." 

"  There,  that  '11  do.  Now  go  and  tell  Withers  that  1 
shall  want  the  carriage  immediately  after  breakfast. 
And,  Christine  .  .  .  put  in  order  the  bed-room  and  the 
sitting-room  on  the  second  floor :  I  'm  expecting  some 
one  to  spend  the  night.  Don't  forget." 

"I  shall  take  care  of  it,  madame." 

Lady  Flanders  went  down  to  breakfast,  ate  with  a 
good  appetite,  and  having  put  on  her  bonnet  and  cloak, 
she  got  into  her  carriage  and  was  driven  to  the  Marquise 
Desmoines'.  The  latter  received  her  august  visitor  with 
some  surprise,  for  Lady  Flanders  had  not  hitherto 
shown  much  disposition  to  cultivate  intimate  relations 
with  the  beautiful  widow.  But  her  ladyship  was  noto- 
rious for  indulging  in  whims  of  which  no  one  but  her- 
self could  divine  the  reason :  and  in  the  present  instance 
she  was  evidently  laying  herself  out  to  be  exceptionally 
polite  and  entertaining.  After  ten  minutes'  desultory 
chat  on  things  in  general,  the  name  of  Philip  Lancaster 
happened  to  fall,  quite  by  accident,  from  Lady  Flanders' 
lips,  and  after  a  moment's  pause  she  said : 

"By-the-by,  my  dear,  I  was  quite  upset  yesterday.  I 
don't  know  whether  to  believe  it  or  not.  I've  taken  such 
a  fancy  to  the  young  gentleman,  I  should  be  sorry  to  see 
his  domestic  felicity  destroyed.  I  have  always  disap- 
proved of  man's  marrying  beneath  him  .  .  .  the  girl  may 


DUST.  831 

be  very  attractive  in  some  ways,  but  such  persons  lack 
training,  and  a  proper  realization  of  their  social  duties. 
Bless  you,  I  don't  expect  women  to  be  saints— that 
would  put  an  end  to  society  in  six  weeks— but  there  is 
everything  in  savoir-faire,  tact,  the  way  a  thing  is  man- 
aged. Let  a  woman  do  anything  but  make  a  vulgar  ex- 
hibition of  herself.  And  that  is  just  what  this  unfortu- 
nate creature  seems  to  have  done— that  is,  if  the  story 
is  to  be  believed  :  and  I  have  it  on  pretty  good  authority. 
What  do  you  think  about  it  ?" 

Perdita  had  been  on  her  guard  from  the  beginning  of 
Lady  Flanders'  speech.,  She  was  startled  (more  per- 
haps, than  distressed)  to  find  that  her  visitor  knew 
anything  about  the  matter  ;  and  anxious  to  discover 
why  the  old  lady  should  suppose  that  she  had  any 
information.  For  there  was  one  reason  why  Perdita 
had  need  to  be  cautious  here  ;  and  that  was,  lest  it 
should  transpire  that  she  herself  had  been  at  Vaux- 
hall.  That  was  the  weak  point  in  her  position  ;  but 
for  that,  she  had  nothing  to  apprehend.  She  was  quite 
certain  that  no  one  among  those  whom  she  had  recog- 
nized there,  had  recognized  her:  as  for  Catnip, — well 
as  he  knew  her, — she  scarcely  knew  that  such  a  per- 
son existed,  she  being,  herein,  at  the  disadvantage  in 
which  all  persons  of  higher  rank  are  liable  to  stand  to- 
ward those  in  the  lower.  Lady  Flanders,  therefore, 
(she  argued)  could  have  no  knowledge  of  her  own  pre- 
sence at  Vauxhall :  and  admitting  that,  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  suppose  that  her  ladyship  should,  of  her  own 
motion,  conjure  up  the  imagination  of  so  wildly  im- 
probable a  thing.  No ;  she  must  have  been  influenced 
by  some  other  idea ;  and  it  was  at  this  juncture  that  the 
Marquise  bethought  herself,  Avith  a  feeling  of  relief,  that 
it  would  be  natural  for  Lady  Flanders  to  infer  that  Philip 
himself  had  been  her  informant.  In  fact,  it  was  Philip 
who  had  first  introduced  the  subject.  Her  apprehensions 


332  DUST. 

thus  relieved,  Perdita  no  longer  saw  in  Lady  Flanders 
anything  more  than  an  old  scandal-monger  greedy  for 
the  last  new  scrap  of  her  favorite  wares ;  and  she  con- 
sequently felt  it  necessary  to  observe  no  more  than  or- 
dinary discretion. 

"Yoii  have  not  yet  told  me,"  she  remarked,  "what 
it  is  you  refer  to." 

"  Dear  me  !  sure  enough  I"  exclaimed  the  other  inno- 
cently. "Well,  I'm  glad  to  see  it  has  not  been  more 
talked  about.  Why,  you  must  know,  my  dear,  that  our 
friend  Mrs.  Lancaster,  who  seemed  so  precious  straight- 
forward and  artless,  has  been  guilty  of  the  most  out- 
rageous rashness — not  to  call  it  by  a  worse  name  !  She 
has  been  .  .  ."  and  here  Lady  Flanders  lowered  her 
voice,  and  told  the  story  which  Perdita  already  knew, 
with  much  vivacity,  and  in  a  way  to  put  Marion's  con- 
duct in  a  most  ungainly  light.  "  'Tis  impossible  to  be 
sorry  for  her,"  she  continued  ;  "such  a  brazen  creature 
puts  herself  outside  the  pale  of  pity  ;  but  one  can't  help 
being  sincerely  concerned  for  that  poor  boy,  Philip  Lan- 
caster. It  will  be  a  terrible  blow  for  him ;  and  knowing 
the  friendly  interest  you  have  shown  in  him,  I  thought  it 
likely  he  might  have  sought  your  advice  on  the  subject." 

"  Since  you  have  spoken  on  the  subject,  my  dear  Lady 
Flanders,"  said  Perdita,  gravely,  "I  may  follow  your 
example,  though  otherwise  1  should  have  kept  silence. 
Mr.  Lancaster  has  opened  his  mind  to  me,  to  some  ex- 
tent ;  and  I  counseled  him  to  put  the  best  construction 
possible  on  his  wife's  conduct,  and  rather  to  secure  her 
safety  in  the  future  than  inquire  too  curiously  into  the 
past.  She  is  young  and  inexperienced,  and  will  no 
doubt  reform  her  behavior  when  she  realizes  its  true 
character." 

"Aye,  aye,  you  little  serpent!"  said  Lady  Flanders 
to  herself,  "  'tis  just  as  I  thought,  you  and  master  Philip 
have  been  feathering  your  own  nest  with  what  you've 


DUST.  833 

plucked  from  my  poor  little  Marion's  reputation.  I'll 
catch  you  yet— see  if  I  don't  1"  Aloud  she  added,  "  In- 
deed, my  dear,  your  advice  was  most  sensible,  and  you're 
a  deal  more  charitable  than  I  should  have  been  in  your 
place.  "Well,  and  how  did  your  advice  affect  him?  I 
hope  he  won't  lose  his  head  and  make  a  disturbance  I" 

"He  does  not  yet  know,  and  I  hope  never  may  know, 
the  name  of  the  gentleman  implicated  in  the  affair," 
said  Perdita.  "As  you  say,  it  could  only  make  bad 
worse  to  have  a  public  outbreak ;  and  I  don't  think 
Philip  will  go  so  far  as  that  until  he  has  seen  me 
again.  ..." 

Perdita  paused,  doubting  the  prudence  of  this  last 
sentence,  which,  in  fact,  had  vastly  delighted  the  cyni- 
ical  and  Machiavellian  old  lady.  The  latter  was  con- 
vinced that  the  relations  between  Perdita  and  Philip 
would  not  bear  inspection,  and  that  they  were  making 
Marion's  predicament  a  pretext  for  prosecuting  their  own 
intrigue.  She  was  determined  to  bring  their  nefarious 
doings  to  light,  and  had  already  partly  outlined  to  her- 
self a  plan  of  operations,  having  that  end  in  view.  For 
the  present,  she  was  satisfied  at  having  attained  the  ob- 
ject of  her  visit,  which  was  simply  to  ascertain  that 
Perdita  and  Philip  were  on  a  confidential  footing  upon 
a  matter  so  nearly  affecting  the  latter's  honor,  and  that 
their  intimacy  was  such  as  it  was  expedient  for  them  to 
disguise.  The  rest  would  be  revealed  in  due  time. 
Meanwhile  she  hastened  to  declare  that  it  was  a  fortu- 
nate thing  for  Philip  to  have  secured  the  friendly  inte- 
rest of  a  woman  of  the  world  like  Perdita ;  and  that  she 
trusted  he  would  show  his  appreciation  of  it. 

"I  was  going  to  say,"  remarked  Perdita,  who  had 
her  wits  about  her,  and  was  by  no  means  prone  to  be- 
lieve in  the  sincerity  of  her  visitor's  cordiality,  "  that 
the  whole  story,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  is  mere  hear- 
say, and  may  be  untrue.  It  would  not  surprise  me  were 


334  DUST. 

it  to  turn  out  so.  So  that  any  premature  allusion  to  it, 
as  your  ladyship  yourself  suggested,  might  do  a  great 
deal  of  harm." 

"Aye,  to  he  sure,"  returned  Lady  Flanders,  admir- 
ing the  cleverness  of  this  stroke  ;  and  for  a  moment  she 
hesitated  whether  or  not  to  give  her  authorities.  She 
decided  not  to  do  so ;  turned  the  conversation  into  a  re- 
view of  the  Bendibow  affair,  and  soon  after  took  her 
leave,  charmed  with  the  prospect  of  finally  getting  the 
better  of  the  only  woman  in  London  whom  she  acknow- 
ledged as  her  equal  in  subtlety  and  intrigue. 

We  will  now  return  to  Philip  Lancaster.  He  came 
home  late  after  his  interview  with  Perdita,  and  Marion 
having  already  gone  to  her  room,  he  resolved  to  post- 
pone whatever  he  might  have  to  say  to  her  until  the 
next  day.  Indeed,  he  needed  time  to  turn  the  matter 
over  in  his  mind.  Before  speaking  to  Perdita,  he  had 
not  regarded  it  in  a  really  serious  light.  All  he 
knew  was  that  Marion  had  spent  the  greater  part  of 
a  night  away  from  home ;  that  her  mother  had  only 
accidentally  discovered  her  absence;  and  that  Marion 
had  given  no  satisfactory  account  of  where  she  had  been. 
When  he  had  asked  her  about  it,  she  had  merely  laughed, 
in  her  strange,  perverse  way,  had  affected  to  treat  it 
lightly,  and  had  remarked  that  he  would  know  by-and- 
by  without  her  telling  him.  He  had  confined  himself, 
at  the  time,  to  some  moderate  expression  of  displeasure ; 
he  was  not  prepared  to  believe  in  anything  worse  than 
an  imprudent  freak,  especially  while  he  was  under  the 
influence  of  Marion's  presence.  She  had  presently  be- 
gun to  speak  of  Bendibow's  arrest,  and  had  expressed  a 
strong  desire  to  know  the  details  of  any  confession  he 
might  make :  and  she  had  suggested  that  Philip  should 
take  the  packet  and  return  it  to  Perdita  without  delay. 
He  agreed  to  do  this :  and  with  that  their  conversation 
terminated.  But  when  Philip  was  alone,  his  reflections 


DUST.  335 

became  more  and  more  uncomfortable;  Marion's  re- 
fusal to  explain  her  escapade  seemed  very  strange ;  and 
her  sudden  anxiety  to  hear  about  Bendibow's  confession 
looked  like  a  pretext  for  changing  the  subject.  Even 
this  errand  to  Perdita  might  be  a  device  to  get  him  out 
of  the  way.  "When,  therefore,  he  and  Perdita  met,  he 
was  in  a  fit  mood  to  receive  the  intelligence  she  had 
ready  for  him:  he  learnt  from  her,  for  the  first  time, 
where  it  was  that  Marion  had  gone,  and  what  she  had 
heen  seen  to  do  there ;  for  although  Perdita  neither  told 
him  that  she  herself  had  been  the  witness  whose  testi- 
mony she  cited,  nor  mentioned  Moore's  name,  she  made 
it  sufficiently  evident  to  her  auditor  that  it  was  not  any 
ordinary  freak  he  had  to  deal  with  here,  but  a  matter  in- 
volving all  that  is  of  most  vital  importance  to  a  husband. 
And  yet,  though  his  mind  was  persuaded,  his  heart  was 
not  so :  did  he  not  know  Marion  ?  and  was  it  credible 
that  she  could  do  such  wrong  ?  It  was  necessary,  how- 
ever, that  his  mind  and  his  heart  should  be  put  in  ac- 
cord, one  way  or  the  other;  and  he  spent  the  greater 
part  of  the  night  in  trying  to  summon  up  all  his  wits 
and  energies  for  the  interview  on  the  morrow.  The 
natural  consequence  was,  that  when  the  morrow  came 
he  was  so  nervous  and  discomposed  as  with  difficulty  to 
control  even  his  voice.  The  interview,  which  took  place 
in  the  breakfast-room,  which  Marion  entered  just  as 
Philip  was  ready  to  leave  it,  did  not  last  long,  though 
its  results  did. 

"Well,"  said  Marion,  as  she  entered,  "did  Madame 
Desmoines  accept  the  packet  ?  And  did  you  see  what 
was  in  it?" 

"  She  did  not  open  it  in  my  presence,"  he  answered. 
"We  found  other  things  to  talk  about." 

"  Oh,  no  doubt,"  said  Marion  laughingly. 

"  There  was  nothing  amusing  in  it,  as  you  seem  to 
suppose,"  he  continued,  hardly  controlling  his  indigna- 


336  DUST. 

tion.  "I  am  going  to  ask  you  a  serious  question,  Ma- 
rion :  and  you  must  answer  it." 

"Must?" 

"Yes,— must!" 

"  That  depends  .  .  .  upon  my  own  pleasure,  Mr. 
Philip!"  she  returned,  with  a  nervous  smile. 

"  You  have  taken  your  pleasure  too  much  into  your 
own  hands  already.  I  must  know  where  you  were  the 
other  night,  and  with  whom." 

"  La  I  is  your  curiosity  awake  again  so  early  ?  Ask  me 
some  other  time.  I  'm  not  ready  to  tell  you  just  yet." 

"  No  other  time  will  do.  I  must  tell  you,  since  you 
seem  ignorant  of  it,  that  your  reputation  as  an  honest 
woman  is  at  stake.  Bah !  don't  try  to  escape  me  with 
subterfuges,  Marion.  I  know  that  you  were  at  Vaux- 
hall  Gardens ;  and  that  your  companion  was  a  man 
who — " 

"  Has  he  ...  has  any  one  been  so  base  as  to  tell — " 

"Any  one!"  thundered  Philip,  his  eyes  blazing. 
"  Who  ?» 

Marion  lifted  her  head  high,  but  she  trembled  all 
over,  and  her  face  was  white.  She  met  Philip's  fiery 
glance  with  a  scornful  look ;  but  beneath  the  scorn  there 
were  unfathomable  depths  of  pain,  humiliation,  appeal. 
Philip  saw  only  the  scorn ;  he  was  in  no  mood  for  in- 
sight. Thus  the  husband  and  wife  confronted  each  other 
for  several  moments,  while  the  air  still  seemed  to  echo 
with  Philip's  angry  shout. 

"Philip,"  said  Marion  at  length,  in  a  thin  voice, 
which  sustained  itself  with  difficulty,  "I  have  done  you 
no  wrong ;  and  1  should  have  been  willing,  some  time, 
to  tell  you  all  you  ask.  But  until  you  go  down  on  your 
knees  at  my  feet,  and  crave  my  pardon,  I  will  not  speak 
to  you  again!" 

"Then  we  have  exchanged  our  last  words  together," 
said  he, 


DUST  337 

Marion  bent  her  head  as  if  in  assent,  and  moved  to 
one  side,  so  that  her  husband  might  leave  the  room.  He 
paused  at  the  door,  and  said  : 

"I  give  you  one  more  chance.  Will  you  confess  ?  I 
might  forgive  you,  then ;  but  if  you  compel  me  to  bring 
home  to  you  your  .  .  .  what  you  have  done,  on  any 
other  evidence,  by  God,  I  never  will  forgive  you  !— Oh, 
Marion  !  will  you  ?" 

His  voice  faltered  ;  tears  of  misery  and  entreaty  were 
in  his  eyes.  Marion  made  a  half-step  toward  him  :  but, 
by  another  impulse,  she  drew  back  again,  covering  her 
eyes  with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  she  motioned 
him  away.  Neither  would  yield ;  and  so  they  parted. 

Philip  went  forth,  not  knowing  whither  he  was  going. 
His  world  was  turned  upside  down,  and  his  life  looked 
like  a  desert.  He  walked  along  the  streets  with  wide- 
open  but  unseeing  eyes — or  with  eyes  that  saw  only 
Marion,  as  she  stood  with  her  hand  over  her  face,  waving 
him  away.  Sometimes  he  thought  it  must  have  been  a 
dream :  but  he  could  not  awake.  He  went  down  to  the 
river-bank,  near  Chelsea,  and  sat  for  several  hours  on  a 
bench,  looking  at  the  muddy  current  as  it  swirled  by. 
The  sky  was  cloudy  and  the  wind  cold,  but  he  did  not 
seem  aware  of  it.  It  was  already  late  in  the  afternoon 
when  he  arose,  and  returned  towards  the  north.  But 
where  should  he  go  ?  Home  ?  There  was  no  such  place. 

For  a  couple  of  hours  we  leave  Philip  to  himself,  to 
meet  with  what  adventures  destiny  may  provide. 

At  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  we  come  up  with  him 
again.  He  is  hurrying  along  the  street  with  a  new  light 
in  his  face— of  anxiety,  of  suspense,  of  hope !  Hope  is 
unmistakably  there — the  dawn  of  a  belief  in  the  possibility 
of  better  things.  The  infrequent  lamps  that  dimly  light 
the  street  intermittently  reveal  the  expression  of  his 
haggard  and  eager  features.  Arrived  at  the  door  of  his 


338  DUST. 

house,  he  paused  for  a  moment,  biting  his  lips  and  clench- 
ing his  hands:  then  he  ran  up  the  steps  and  rang  the 
bell.  The  door  seemed  never  to  be  going  to  open,  and 
in  his  impatience  he  rang  again.  It  opened  at  last.  He 
strode  across  the  threshold. 

"  Mrs.  Lancaster  up  stairs  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  servant.  "  She  went  out  this  af- 
ternoon in  a  carriage  :  not  your  carriage,  sir.  She  left 
a  note  she  said  was  to  be  given  to  you,  sir.  'Tis  there 
on  the  'all  table,  sir." 

A  singular  quietness  came  over  Philip,  as  he  opened 
the  letter,  and  deliberately  read  its  contents.  He  seemed 
to  himself  to  have  known  that  this  was  coming.  He  put 
the  letter  in  his  pocket. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said  to  the  servant.  "I  had 
forgotten  .  .  .  I  shall  probably  not  be  back  to-night." 
He  waited  an  instant  or  two,  looking  down  at  the 
ground :  then,  without  saying  anything  more,  he  de- 
scended the  steps  and  walked  away.  The  door  closed 
behind 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

PERDITA  had  planned  to  attend  the  opera  that  even- 
ing, and  afterwards  she  meant  to  look  in  at  Lord  Croftus' 
party,  which  had  more  or  less  of  a  political  significance. 
Her  carriage  was  waiting  at  the  door,  and  she  herself, 
in  full  raiment  of  festivity,  was  in  the  act  of  coining 
down  stairs,  with  a  soft  silken  shawl  thrown  round  her 
neck  and  shoulders  to  keep  out  the  chill,  when  she  heard 
the  door-bell  ring  sharply,  and  some  one  was  admitted 
to  the  hall  below.  Then  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  was 
familiar  to  her  came  to  her  ears.  Hearing  it,  the  Mar- 
quise paused  on  the  upper  landing,  holding  the  folds  of 
her  shawl  together  with  her  left  hand,  and  gazing  expect- 
antly downward. 

"  Philip,  again  !"  she  murmured.  "  Something  must 
have  happened.  Well,  let  us  see." 

Philip  mounted  the  stairs  slowly  and  heavily,  with  his 
hand  on  the  banisters,  and  his  head  bent  down.  Only 
when  he  reached  the  landing  where  Perdita  stood  did  he 
look  up.  When  she  saw  the  expression  on  his  face,  she 
took  him  by  the  hand  without  a  word,  and  led  him  up  to 
the  next  floor,  and  into  her  boudoir.  Some  wine  was 
sparkling  in  a  decanter  on  the  cabinet  between  the  win- 
dows. She  poured  out  a  glass  of  this,  and  held  it  to  his 
lips.  He  had  been  glancing  round  the  room  in  an  ap- 
prehensive but  intent  way,  and  then  into  her  face,  as  if 
suspecting  the  presence  of  some  one  or  of  something 
which  did  not  appear.  After  a  few  moments'  pause  he 
drank  the  wine,  and  put  the  glass  down. 

"  If  she  is  here,  tell  me  at  once,"  he  said. 

"  No  one  is  here  but  ourselves.  Whom  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  You  know  nothing  about  it  ?" 
339 


340  DUST. 

"  No.    What  is  it  ?» 

"  Have  you  seen  my  wife  lately  ?" 

"  Lately  ?    Three  or  four  days  ago — a  week." 

"Then  .   .   .   she's  lost!" 

"  Marion — your  wife  ?    Why,  Philip  .   .   .   lost  I" 

"  I  thought  she  might  have  come  here.  No,  I  didn't 
think  it :  I  hoped — I  couldn't  believe  all  at  once  that  she 
was  gone.  One  tries  to  dodge  such  things  as  long  as  pos- 
sible." He  fetched  a  deep  breath,  and  took  off  his  hat, 
which,  up  to  this  moment,  he  had  forgotten  to  remove. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  vaguely,  drawing  his  brows 
together  as  if  to  collect  his  wits  :  "  Thank  you.  You  're 
going  out.  I  won't  detain  you." 

"  Sit  down,  Philip,"  said  the  Marquise,  guiding  him  to 
a  chair  as  if  he  had  been  a  child,  or  an  infirm  person.  "  I 
am  not  going  out — I  am  going  to  stay  here  with  you. 
See  !  I  am  dressed  to  receive  you,"  she  added,  throwing 
off  her  wrap  and  smiling.  "Now,  Philip,  we  are  friends, 
you  know,  and  you  have  confidence  in  me.  Let  me  help 
you.  At  any  rate,  tell  me  I" 

"I  am  ashamed  to  tell  it,"  said  he  heavily.  "I  have 
been  to  blame :  but  I  never  thought  of  this.  It  doesn't 
seem  possible  in  her  1" 

"  Has  your  wife  left  you — has  she  run  away  ?"  asked 
Perdita,  putting  into  words,  with  her  accustomed 
strength  of  nerve,  what  Philip  shrank  from  formulating 
even  in  his  thought.  He  did  not  reply,  save  by  an  as- 
senting silence,  and  she  presently  went  on:  "Are  you 
sure  there  is  no  mistake  ?  She  can't  have  been  gone  long  ; 
she  may  come  back.^' 

"  She  will  never  come  back  :  she  left  a  letter,  to  say  she 
thought  it  best  we  should  not  meet  again,  after  .  .  . 
some  words  we  had  this  morning.  But  that  is  a  pretext ! 
I  had  a  right  to  ask  her  to  explain.  She  must  have  made 
up  her  mind  before  ;  and  when  she  found  I  knew  what — 
what  you  told  me — " 


DUST.  841 

"  Did  you  tell  her  it  was  I  ?" 

"No :  she  thought  it  was  the  fellow  himself  who  had 
spoken— she  betrayed  herself  in  thinking  he  had  betrayed 
her.  Oh,  what  a  miserable,  pitiable  thing !  'Tis  as  if  she 
were  another  woman— she  seemed  so  noble  and  so  pure  I 
And  even  Lady  Flanders  had  just  been  telling  me  that  it 
was  all  nonsense — my  imagination." 

"  Lady  Flanders  ?" 

"  I  met  her  in  the  street  an  hour  ago.  She  said  my  sus- 
picions were  an  outrage  on  the  truest  and  purest  woman 
alive  ;  but  that  I  deserved  to  suffer  the  misfortune  I 
imagined,  and  that  if  she  were  Marion,  she  would  give 
me  my  deserts.  And  when  I  told  her  what  I  knew,  she 
laughed,  and  said  she  knew  all  that  and  much  more,  and 
that  Marion  was  as  innocent  as  an  angel  in  spite  of  it.  I 
didn't  know  what  to  think  :  but  I  came  home,  ready  to 
kneel  down  and  ask  her  pardon,  if  it  were  true.  But  she 
had  taken  her  opportunity,  and  gone." 

This  story  was  a  surprise  for  Perdita,  and  she  could 
not  understand  it.  It  seemed  entirely  improbable  that 
Lady  Flanders  could  have  been  sincere  in  what  she  had 
said  ;  but,  then,  what  could  have  been  her  object  in  say- 
ing it  ?  Was  she  secretly  aiding  Moore  in  his  schemes  ? 
That  was  conceivable,  and  her  ladyship  was  quite  wicked 
enough  :  and  yet  it  was  not  a  characteristic  kind  of 
wickedness  in  her.  Moreover,  what  help  would  it  give 
the  fugitive  couple  to  make  Philip  believe  for  a  few  min- 
utes that  his  wife  was  innocent  ?  On  the  other  hand, 
however,  what  interest  could  she  have  had  in  making  a 
woman  appear  innocent  of  whose  guilt  she  was  per- 
suaded ?  It  was  perplexing  either  way,  and  caused  Per- 
dita some  uneasiness :  she  regretted  having  spoken  to 
the  old  plotter  even  so  frankly  as  she  had  done.  But 
she  would  get  to  the  bottom  of  that  matter  later  :  Philip 
en^a^ed  her  attention  now.  The  crisis  of  his  trouble 

O      O 

had  come  on  much  sooner  than  she  expected,  and  she 


343  DUST. 

was  inclined  to  share  (though  with  a  different  feeling)  his 
amazement  at  his  wife's  action.  Perdita  felt  that  she 
had  undervalued  Marion's  audacity  and  resolution,  not 
to  speak  of  her  unscrupulousness.  She  had  been  startled 
to  see  her  at  Vauxhall ;  but  this  sudden  culmination  of 
the  intrigue  showed  a  spirit  stronger  and  more  thorough- 
going than  that  of  the  ordinary  intriguer. 

"  And  to  think  of  her  doing  it  for  a  dapper  little  tom- 
tit like  Tom  Moore!"  said  the  Marquise  to  herself. 
"  Well !  'tisn't  he  I  would  have  done  it  for  I "  Here  she 
glanced  at  Philip,  who  sat  relaxed  and  nerveless,  his  chin 
resting  upon  his  broad  chest,  his  great  eyes,  haggard  and 
sad,  gazing  out  beneath  the  dark  level  of  his  brows  ;  his 
noble  figure,  revealed  beneath  the  close-buttoned  coat  and 
small-clothes,  sunk  in  a  posture  of  unconscious  grace ; 
his  hessians  stained  with  the  mire  of  the  weary  miles  he 
had  traversed  :  here  was  a  man  to  whom,  indeed,  a  wo- 
man might  yield  her  heart,  and  for  whose  sake  she  might 
imperil  her  renown.  But  what  woman  in  her  senses — 
especially  when  they  were  senses  so  keen  as  Marion's 
appeared  to  be — would  abandon  such  a  man  as  this  for 
.  .  ?  It  roused  the  Marquise's  indignation. 

"  She  has  gone,  then,  Philip  :  let  her  go  !  "  sh%  said, 
fixing  upon  him  her  sparkling  eyes.  "I  can  forgive  a 
woman  for  anything  but  being  a  fool !  I  am  a  woman, 
and  I  know — or  can  imagine — what  it  is  to  love.  But 
she  has  thrown  herself  away  for  nothing.  What  you 
loved  was  something  that  never  was  in  her,  though  you 
fancied  otherwise.  You  can  forget  her :  and  you  will  1 
What  is  she  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  won't  forget  her  yet ! "  Philip  said,  lifting  his  face 
with  a  grim  look.  "I'll  find  her  first,"  he  continued, 
suddenly  rising  to  his  feet,  and  tossing  back  his  black 
tangled  hair,  "and  the  man  who  is  with  her!  I  need 
occupation,  and  that  will  suit  me." 

"I  believe  in  revenge  as  much  as  anybody,"  observed 


DUST  343 

the  beautiful  Marquise,  tapping  her  white  fingers  on  the 
arm  of  her  chair;  "but  what  you  are  thinking  of  is 
vulgar.  Any  poor  forsaken  husband  can  run  after  his 
wife,  and  risk  losing  his  life  as  well  as  her.  There  are 
finer  things  to  do  than  that,  Philip.  Why  should  you 
pay  them  the  compliment  of  hunting  them  down  ?  Let 
them  punish  each  other :  they  '11  do  it  soon  enough, 
and  more  cruelly  than  you  would  I  " 

"I  want  the  fellow's  blood,"  said  Philip  savagely. 
"I  won't  fight  him— I'll  kill  him.  I  don't  want  finer 
kinds  of  revenge  :  they  wouldn't  satisfy  what  I  feel 
here!"  As  he  spoke,  he  put  his  clenched  hand  over 
his  heart. 

"And  after  the  killing— what ?  Suicide,  to  prevent 
hanging.  It  mustn't  be,  Philip.  Feel  that  you  are  well 
rid  of  her ;  and  let  her  know  it  I  " 

He  shook  his  head.     "  How  could  that  be  done  ?  " 

Perdita  waited  until  his  eyes  encountered  hers.  It 
would  be  no  slight  feat  to  make  a  man  in  Philip's  con- 
dition forget  his  disgrace  and  wretchedness  by  dint  of 
the  sheer  potency  of  her  personal  charm.  But  Perdita's 
spirit  was  equal  to  the  attempt,  and  she  was  conscious 
that  she  had  never  been  better  equipped  for  success. 
And  if  she  did  succeed  so  far,  she  might  safely  leave 
the  rest  to  him.  It  was  a  crisis  for  herself  as  well  as 
for  him.  The  craving  for  adventure,  the  defiance  of 
laws,  the  passion  of  the  heart,  which  she  had  been  all 
her  life  approaching,  might  be  realized  now  :  if  not  now, 
then  not  at  all.  Perdita  had  a  powerful  heart,  full  of 
courage  for  any  emergency,  and  with  capacity  for  tren- 
chant emotion  both  of  love  and  hate.  She  had  been 
lonely  and  self-poised  from  her  girlhood  ;  she  had  fenced 
herself  with  the  armor  of  an  alert  and  penetrating  mind, 
and  had  made  good  her  defense ;  but,  to  a  woman,  victo- 
ries like  these  are  little  better  than  defeat.  She  had 
fought  to  gain  that  which  she  would  rather  lose.  She 


344  DUST. 

longed  to  yield ;  to  give  up  her  sword  and  shield,  and 
taste  the  sweetness  of  submission.  The  laws  of  God  and 
man  were  against  her ;  but  she  perceived  that  it  was 
only  by  disregarding  these  laws  that  she  could  gain  her 
desire  ;  and  she  had  never  been  taught  to  love  the  one, 
or  to  respect  the  other.  She  had  wished  to  conquer 
Philip  ;  to  bring  him  to  her  feet,  as  she  had  brought 
other  men,  and  then  to  draw  back,  herself  uneompro- 
mised  and  unhurt.  But  now  she  found  that  no  such  cold 
triumph  would  content  her.  She  was  ready  to  take  the 
further  step  that  separates  the  thousand  prudent  co- 
quettes of  the  social  world  from  the  few  who  are  daring 
enough  to  surrender.  All  would  be  lost  but  love  :  but 
was  not  that  worth  all  ? 

These  thoughts  were  stirring  in  the  depths  of  the  look 
which  she  bent  upon  Philip ;  and  the  fire  of  them 
searched  through  the  thick  clouds  of  despondency  and 
wrath  that  brooded  over  his  mind.  An  answering  fire 
began  to  kindle  in  his  own  eyes.  For  when  the  fierce 
emotions  of  the  soul  have  been  aroused,  their  sinister 
heat  permeates  the  blood,  and  makes  the  impulses  plas- 
tic ;  so  that  adultery  goes  hand-in-hand  with  murder. 

"  There  is  more  than  one  woman  in  the  world,  mon 
ami,"  said  Perdita.  "What  you  have  lost  by  one,  you 
might  perhaps  more  than  regain  by  another." 

"Ah,  Perdita  !"  muttered  Philip,  in  an  inward  tone. 
He  drew  two  or  three  deep  breaths,  and  sat  down  beside 
her.  "Was  this  destined  to  be  the  end  of  the  story  ?"  he 
continued.  "  Why  did  we  not  know  it  long  ago  ?  Shall 
we  revenge  each  other  on  those  who  have  injured  us  ?" 
He  took  her  hand,  which  responded  to  the  pressure  he 
gave  it.  "So  this  is  what  was  destined !"  he  repeated, 
"  and  I  was  a  fool  to  leave  you  after  all  I" 

"  We  were  neither  of  us  ready  then,  perhaps,"  she  said, 
in  the  same  low  tone  in  which  he  had  spoken.  Speech 
came  slowly  to  both  of  them,  there  was  so  much  to  say. 


DUST.  345 

"  You  gave  me  a  scar  which  I  vowed  to  requite  you  for," 
she  added  with  a  smile. 

"The  seal  of  blood  upon  our  union,"  he  responded, 
smiling  also.  "  I  have  bled  too.  How  well  I  remember 
all  that.  It  was  symbolic.  You  challenged  me  to  it, 
and  handed  me  the  swords,  to  make  my  choice.  In  the 
second  pass  my  foot  slipped,  and  my  point  touched  your 
breast.  You  seemed  not  to  try  to  parry." 

"If  it  had  passed  through  my  heart,  I  shouldn't  have 
minded,  then." 

"  "Were  you  so  unhappy  ?" 

"I  was  weary.  But  new  life  came  to  me  with  that 
wound.  You  were  very  tender  .  .  .  and  very  timid  !" 
she  said,  laughing.  "Was  I  the  first  woman  whose 
heart  you  had  endangered  ?" 

"Well,  I  had  my  scruples.  Your  husband  was  my 
friend.  I  'm  not  sorry  that  I  did  so,  now.  I  should 
have  felt  remorse.  But  that  is  all  past.  No  remorse 
any  more !  No  one  can  blame  us,  Perdita.  When  did 
you  begin  to  ...  think  of  me  ?"  " 

"I  have  never  asked  my  heart  many  questions,  nor 
let  myself  listen  when  it  tried  to  speak.  Perhaps  I  never 
cared  for  you  until  this  moment.  But  I  wanted  you  to 
care  for  me  from  the  first.  It  seems  so  strange,  Philip, 
to  be  talking  to  you  without  a  disguise.  I  don't  believe 
I  have  ever  done  that  to  any  one.  I  wonder  how  soon  I 
shall  get  used  to  it !" 

"  You  will  forget  that  it  was  strange,  soon." 

"And  shall  we  begin  to  get  tired  of  each  other  then  ?" 

"God  forbid  that  should  ever  happen!"  exclaimed 
Philip  with  a  sombre  look. 

"  Yes ;  one  cannot  expect  to  succeed  in  this  sort  of  ex- 
periment more  than  once,"  returned  Perdita,  with  a 
smile.  "  We  should  have  to  try  another  fencing  match 
then,  and  you  would  have  to  push  your  rapier  a  little 
further."  After  a  pause  she  continued,  "Were  you 
really  in  love  with  your  wife,  Philip  ?" 


846  DUST. 

"We  must  not  speak  about  that." 

"There  must  be  no  closed  subjects  between  us,  sir  !" 
she  said,  lifting  her  finger  playfully.  "  We  don't  belong 
to  society  any  more,  remember :  we  have  nothing  but 
each  other  to  comfort  ourselves  with.  There  is  no  inti- 
macy like  this  intimacy,  Philip.  A  husband  and  wife 
represent  the  world  :  but  we — what  do  we  represent  ?" 

"  Then  let  us  make  a  new  beginning  here,  and  build  a 
wall  between  us  and  the  past.  We  are  no  longer  what 
we  have  been :  why  should  we  recall  the  deeds  and 
thoughts  of  persons  who  were  not  what  we  are  ?" 

"We  have  only  one  thing  to  be  afraid  of,"  said  the 
Marquise,  looking  at  him  thoughtfully,  "and  that  is  fear! 
Unless  you  can  take  your  courage  in  your  hands,  man 
ami,  the  time  will  come  when  you  will  need  it,  and  find 
it  wanting.  It  is  best  to  think  of  these  things  while 
there  is  yet  time.  If  you  fear  Marion,  or  your  memories 
of  her,  do  not  come  near  me  !  I  cannot  help  you  there. 
In  all  else  I  would  be  as  true  as  steel  to  you.  But  you 
must  be  true  to  me.  The  worldly  honor  that  we  aban- 
don must  make  our  honor  toward  each  other  doubly 
strong." 

Again  Philip  rose  suddenly  to  his  feet :  but  instead 
of  standing  in  one  place  he  began  to  pace  up  and  down 
the  room.  Perdita,  after  watching  him  keenly  for  a 
few  moments,  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  remained 
quite  without  movement,  save  that  the  changing  glitter 
of  the  necklace  on  her  bosom  showed  that  she  breathed. 
Almost  any  other  woman  would  have  betrayed  signs  of 
nervousness  or  agitation  under  such  circumstances  ;  but 
there  was  in  Perdita,  notwithstanding  her  subtlety  and 
superficial  fickleness,  a  certain  strong  elemental  simpli- 
city of  character,  that  enabled  her,  after  entering  upon 
a  given  course,  to  pursue  it  with  as  much  steadiness 
and  singleness  of  purpose  as  if  no  other  course  were  pos- 
sible. She  was  one  of  those  who  can  sleep  soundly  on 


DUST.  847 

the  eve  of  execution,  or  play  their  last  stake  and  lose  it 
with  a  smile.  And  now,  when,  as  she  divined  from 
Philip's  manner,  and  the  changing  expressions  that 
passed  across  his  lace,  all  was  once  more  in  doubt  be- 
tween them,  and  the  issue  beyond  prophecy,  it  was  not 
only  possible  but  natural  for  her  to  sit  composed  and  si- 
lent, and  await  what  must  be  to  her  the  final  good  or 
evil  of  the  future.  She  knew  that  there  were  ways  in 
which  she  might  influence  Philip ;  but  with  that  strange 
feminine  pride  that  never  avouches  itself  more  strongly 
than  at  the  moment  when  all  pride  seems  to  have  been 
surrendered,  she  would  not  avail  herself  of  them.  Had 
she  tried  to  move  him  at  all,  it  would  have  been  on  the 
other  side.  At  last  he  stopped  in  his  walk,  and  halted 
before  her.  She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile. 

"  Well,  monsieur,  have  you  thought  it  all  out  ?  Have 
you  realized  the  folly  of  it  ?  Sit  down  here  and  tell  me 
your  opinion." 

"  I  am  going  to  play  the  most  ungainly  part  that  can 
fall  to  a  man,"  he  said,  in  a  husky  and  obstructed  voice, 
which  he  did^  not  attempt  to  make  smooth.  "  Let  us 
part,  Perdita.  The  only  thing  that  gives  me  resolution 
to  say  this,  is  that  I  find  it  hard  to  say.  But  I  know 
myself  too  well  I  I  am  small  and  incomplete  of  nature  : 
hitherto  I  have  deluded  myself,  and  perhaps  others,  by 
a  play  of  intellect  which  drew  attention  from  my  real 
feebleness  and  narrowness,  and  made  me  seem  to  be  as 
broad  and  as  deep  as  the  reach  of  my  thoughts  and  im- 
agination. It  is  all  delusion :  I  can  chatter  and  con- 
trive, but  what  I  do  and  feel  is  petty  and  cold.  There 
have  been  moments  when  I  fancied  I  had  overcome  that 
torpid  chill  of  the  heart,  and  should  be  single,  at  last, 
in  thought  and  feeling;  but  the  chill  has  always  come 
back,  and  the  horizon  been  blotted  out  again  by  the 
shadow  of  my  own  carcase.  Even  now  it  is  of  myself 
that  I  am  talking,  instead  of  about  you  I" 


348  DUST. 

"  That  is  why  you  interest  me,  my  friend." 
"  Yes  ;  and  I  might  as  well  stop  there.  I  am  not 
going  to  hang  such  a  lump  of  emptiness  as  myself  round 
your  neck.  Even  your  overflow  of  life  would  not  suf- 
fice long  to  vivify  me.  A  man  whose  wife  has  been 
forced  to  desert  him  six  months  after  marriage — a  man 
who,  merely  by  being  himself,  could  change  an  innocent 
and  high-spirited  girl  into  a  miserable  outcast — such  a 
fellow  as  that  has  neither  the  power  nor  the  right  to 
claim  the  love  of  a  woman  like  you.  Perdita,  I  am  not 
fit  even  to  commit  a  genuine  sin  !  May  God  help  me  to 
the  decency  of  keeping  henceforth  to  myself!  What 
would  be,  at  least,  generosity  and  courage  in  you,  would 
be  selfish  and  dastardly  in  me.  It  amazes  me  that  I  can 
feel  even  the  shame  and  self-contempt  that  I  am  trying 
to  give  utterance  to.  But  probably  I  shall  have  forgot- 
ten that  too  by  to-morrow  1" 

"  All  that  is  very  extravagant  and  impolite,"  said  Per- 
dita pleasantly.  "You  should  know  better  than  to 
abuse  a  gentleman  whom  I  esteem,  and  .  .  .  who  can- 
not defend  himself!  Seriously,  Philip,  if  I  am  angry 
with  you,  it  is  because  you  are  quite  right.  I  will  not 
compliment  you  on  your  virtue,  because  you  don't  seem 
to  think  of  that  so  much  as  to  be  afraid  of  becoming  a 
burden  on  my  hands.  'No — I  perceive,  underneath  your 
disguise,  a  courteous  desire  to  save  me  from  the  conse- 
quences of  my  own  rashness.  It  is  the  act  of  a  true  gen- 
tleman, and  ...  I  shall  never  forgive  it !  I  must,  like 
you,  have  some  occupation,  and  since  you  will  not  let  me 
love  you,  you  shall  give  employment  to  my  hate.  It  will 
be  just  as  amusing,  and  a  great  deal  more  comme  il  fault 
And  then,  some  day — who  knows  ? — your  lost  Marion 
may  turn  up  again,  neither  better  nor  worse  than  other 
men's  wives,  and  with  her  curiosity  as  to  the  world  grati- 
fied. And  then  you  will  be  happier  than  ever.  Will  you 
drink  another  glass  of  wine  ?" 


DUST.  349 

"Yes!"  said  Philip,  pouring  it  out,  and  taking  the 
glass  in  his  hand.  "I  drink  to  your  new  occupation, 
Perdita.  May  it  bring  you  satisfaction :  and  may  you 
long  enjoy  it  I" 

"  Stay  I"  exclaimed  she :  "  let  me  drink  too.  But  my 
toast  shall  be  different.  May  the  day  on  which  I  for- 
give you  be  the  last  day  I  live  !" 

They  drank,  and  set  down  their  glasses;  and  ex- 
changed a  final  look.  Was  it  hate  that  he  saw  in  her 
eyes,  or  love  ?  Often  afterwards  that  question  recurred 
to  Philip's  mind,  and  never  found  a  certain  answer. 
But  he  always  remembered  Perdita  as  she  stood  there, 
erect  and  bright,  with  a  smile  on  her  beautiful  face,  and 
her  red  lips  wet  with  the  red  wine. 


CHAPTER  XXXIY. 

Sm  FRANCIS  BENDIBOW,  the  last  of  his  race,  and 
once  held  to  be  the  greatest  and  most  successful  banker 
in  England,  was  meanwhile  lying  on  a  bed  in  a  small 
room,  in  a  house  not  his  own,  and  with  no  traces  of 
luxury  about  him.  The  bed,  indeed,  was  an  easy  bed 
enough,  though  it  was  not  made  of  mahogany,  nor 
draped  with  damask  curtains  :  and  the  room  was  by  no 
means  a  dungeon,  though  the  furniture  and  fittings  were 
of  the  plainest  and  most  economical  description,  and 
Sir  Francis  would  not  have  been  at  liberty  to  open  the 
door  and  go  out,  had  he  wished  to  do  so.  It  is  not 
probable,  however,  that  he  wished  to  do  anything  of  the 
kind  :  nor,  had  he  been  as  free  as  the  sparrow  that  was 
twittering  on  the  eaves  outside  the  narrow  window, 
could  he  have  found  strength  to  rise  from  his  bed 
and  walk  across  the  room.  His  physical  resources 
were  at  an  end  :  and  the  physician  who  had  felt  his 
pulse  that  morning  had  admitted  (in  response  to  the 
urgent  demand  of  the  baronet)  that  the  chances  were 
against  his  surviving  many  hours  longer.  Sentence  of 
death,  come  it  how  it  may,  generally  produces  a  notable 
impression  on  the  recipient.  Sir  Francis  said  nothing : 
he  fixed  his  eyes  curiously  upon  the  doctor's  face  for  a 
few  moments ;  then  let  his  gaze  wander  slowly  round 
the  room,  taking  note  of  every  object  in  it.  Finally,  he 
settled  himself  comfortably  in  the  bed,  and  appeared  to 
give  himself  up  to  his  meditations,  in  the  midst  of 
which  the  doctor  left  him,  feeling  some  surprise  at  the 
baronet's  sang-froid  and  equanimity.  "Must  have  a 
350 


DUST.  351 

tolerable  clean  conscience,  after  all,"  he  remarked  to 
Fillmore,  outside  the  door.  "Dare  say  others  were 
more  to  blame  for  the  smash  than  he.  Seems  always  to 
have  been  unlucky  in  his  friends." 

Sir  Francis,  in  fact,  appeared  rather  cheerful  than 
otherwise.  The  symptoms  of  harassment,  suspense, 
and  irritation  which  had  beset  him  for  several  months 
past,,  were  no  longer  visible.  He  lay  there  as  one  who 
composedly  awaits  some  agreeable  event,  and,  mean- 
while, occupies  himself  with  passing  in  review  before 
his  mind  the  incidents  of  a  pleasant  and  successful  ca- 
reer. After  an  hour  or  so  of  this,  however,  he  signed 
to  Fillmore  to  approach  the  bedside,  and  spoke  to  him 
earnestly,  though  in  a  low  tone,  for  several  moments. 
After  a  little  discussion,  the  lawyer  left  the  room.  He 
did  not  return  for  five  or  six  hours,  during  which  time 
Sir  Francis  lay  quite  alone,  save  for  an  occasional  mo- 
mentary visit  from  the  attendant  on  duty.  At  last 
there  was  another  step  in  the  passage :  the  door  opened 
and  Fillmore  came  in. 

"  She  has  come,"  he  said,  walking  up  to  the  bed,  and 
looking  keenly  down  at  the  other.  "Are  you  still  of 
the  same  mind  ?" 

The  baronet  nodded,  and  said :  "Lose  no  time." 

Fillmore  went  back  to  the  door,  and  immediately  re- 
turned with  Marion  Lancaster  on  his  arm.  He  led  her 
to  the  bedside,  and  the  baronet  greeted  her  with  a 
movement  of  the  hand  and  arm,  and  a  slight  bend  of  the 
head,  which,  feeble  though  they  were,  somehow  re- 
called the  grand  obeisances  that  Sir  Francis  Bendibow 
was  wont  to  make  in  the  days  of  his  prosperity  and  re- 
nown. 

"  Sit  down,  my  dear,"  he  said,  indicating  the  chair  at 
his  side.  "  Very  kind  of  you  to  come.  You  look  fa- 
tigued.'* 

So  indeed  she  did,  with  a  fatigue  that  was  more  than 


352  DUST. 

bodily.  "I  am  well  enough."  she  said  looking  at  him 
gravely ;  and  she  sat  down. 

"Fillmore,"  said  the  baronet,  "will  you  remain  out- 
side a  bit  ?  Mrs.  Lancaster  and  I  are  going  to  have  a 
little  private  chat  together." 

When  the  lawyer  had  withdrawn,  Sir  Francis  altered 
his  position  so  as  to  face  Marion  more  fully,  and  said, 
"  I  had  an  odd  impression  the  other  day.  I  was -at  a 
place — Vauxhall,  in  fact — on  business;  and  something 
happened  there  that  upset  me.  I  was  senseless  for  a 
while,  or  nearly  so  :  but  I  had  an  impression  that  I  saw 
your  face,  and  heard  your  voice.  And  afterwards,  for 
a  time,  I  fancied  I  heard  and  saw  you  again  at  intervals. 
It  was  in  a  room  at  an  inn,  somewhere,  at  last.  That 
must  have  been  all  a  fancy  of  mine — eh?" 

"No,  I  was  with  you,"  Marion  replied.  "I  saw  you 
when  you  fell :  and  I  got  a  carriage  and  took  you  to  an 
inn.  I  should  have  taken  you  to  your  own  house  :  but 
a  gentleman  whom  I  happened  to  meet,  and  who  as- 
sisted me,  seemed  to  think  it  best  not  to  do  that." 

"  Quite  right  of  him,  whoever  he  was,"  said  the  baro- 
net ;  "  though,  as  things  are  to-day,  it  doesn't  make 
much  difference,  either.  So  'twas  really  you  ?  The  gen- 
tleman was  your  husband,  of  course  ?" 

"No:  my  husband  knew  nothing  of  my  going  there. 
I  went  there  to  meet  you,  Sir  Francis." 

The  baronet  looked  surprised. 

"  I  never  thought  to  have  the  opportunity  to  tell  you 
this,"  Marion  continued.  "I  wanted  to  ask  you  some- 
thing, which  nobody  but  you  could  tell  me.  I  heard 
you  were  living  in  Twickenham,  but,  when  I  went  there, 
they  told  me  you  would  see  no  one.  But,  as  I  was 
going  away,  one  of  your  servants  said  that  you  would  be, 
at  a  certain  hour,  at  Vauxhall." 

"  Catnip,  for  a  thousand  pounds  I"  interjected  the 
dying  man,  with  some  animation. 


DUBT.  853 

"I  think  that  was  his  name,"  said  Marion.  "My  hus- 
band happened  to  be  away  from  home  that  night,  so  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  go.  But  for  a  long  time  I  could 
not  find  you  anywhere.  At  last,  just  as  I  was  going 
away,  there  was  a  disturbance  in  the  crowd,  and  I  saw 
you.  But  you  were  not  able  to  speak  then." 

"Upon  my  soul !"  said  the  baronet,  with  a  feeble  gri- 
mace, "I  should  have  felt  honored,  madame,  had  I  been 
aware  .  .  .  Well,  I  'in  rather  far  gone  for  gallantry, 
now.  But  what  could  I  have  told  you,  eh  ?" 

"I  wanted  to  know  about  Mr.  Grant.  Whether  he 
were  really  your  friend  Grantley." 

"  Aye  ?    What  did  you  want  to  know  that  for  ?" 

"Because  he  had  bequeathed  some  money  to  his  near- 
est of  kin.  If  he  were  Mr.  Grantley,  the  money  would 
have  come  to  my  husband  :  but  not  so,  if  he  were  some 
one  else.  And  no  one  could  tell  me  but  you." 

"  Ha !  Well,  twenty  thousand  pounds  is  worth  run- 
ning some  risk  for,"  said  the  baronet ;  "  and  'twas  some 
risk  to  run,  begad,  going  alone  to  Vauxhall  at  midnight, 
my  dear !  But  who  withholds  the  bequest  from  you  ? 
And  why  didn't  you  send  your  husband  or  your  lawyer 
to  make  the  inquiry  ?" 

"  Because  there  were  reasons  why  I  did  not  wish  my 
husband  to  receive  the  legacy ;  and  there  was  no  way  to 
prevent  it,  except  to  know  that  Mr.  Grant  was  not  the 
person  he  was  supposed  to  be." 

Sir  Francis  seemed  not  to  understand  this  explana- 
tion :  it  was  hardly  to  be  expected  he  should  do  so ;  but, 
with  the  indifference  to  minor  inconsistencies  natural  to 
his  condition,  he  passed  it  over ;  and,  after  a  short  pause, 
he  said,  reverting  to  his  former  idea,  "The  legacy  is 
safe  enough,  my  dear.  Grant  was  Grantley — that  is 
all  the  matter  with  him.  If  he  'd  been  any  one  else, 
I  'd  not  be  lying  here  to-day.  Your  husband  may  keep 
his  twenty  thousand  pounds,  and  much  good  may  it  do 


354  DUST. 

him !  There 's  not  much  worth  having  in  this  world, 
but  money  's  the  best  worth  having  of  what  there  is." 
He  stopped  for  a  few  moments.  "It  just  happens,"  he 
continued,  "that  'twas  about  this  same  Grantley  I 
wanted  to  speak  to  you.  'Tis  not  worth  while,  perhaps ; 
but  when  a  man's  going  to  die,  a  secret  is  of  no  good  to 
him — all  the  more  if  it 's  a  secret  that  has  been  bother- 
ing him  all  his  life.  I  've  been  the  slave  of  more  secrets 
than  one,  and  they  've  never  shown  me  any  mercy  :  but 
'tis  my  turn  now  ;  for  I  can  reveal  'em,  and  they  can  do 
me  no  harm !  I  can  laugh  at  'em,  begad !  and  not  be 
a  penny  the  worse  for  it.  But  for  all  that,  my  dear,  I 
wouldn't  have  told  'em  to  any  one  but  you.  There 's 
something  about  you — always  was — different  from  any 
other  creature  I  ever  met.  Your  husband's  a  lucky  fel- 
low ;  and  if  he  's  not  the  happiest  fellow,  and  the  best, 
that  ever  breathed,  then  stifle  me  if  he  isn't  a  fool  and  a 
villain  I" 

"  You  misjudge  me  and  him,"  said  Marion,  speaking 
between  her  set  teeth.  "  I  am  ready  to  hear  about  Mr. 
Grant,  Sir  Francis."  But  at  this  point  her  self-com- 
mand gave  way,  and  she  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears — 
the  first  she  had  shed  since  her  quarrel  with  Philip  the 
morning  before.  The  baronet,  who  could  not  suppose 
that  anything  he  had  said  had  given  occasion  for  this 
outbreak,  allowed  himself  the  flattery  of  believing  that 
it  was  compassion  for  his  own  state  that  moved  her — a 
delusion  that  did  neither  of  them  any  harm  ;  and  possi- 
bly it  was  not  so  entirely  a  delusion  that  some  such  sen- 
timent may  not  have  added  itself  to  Marion's  deeper 
causes  of  unhappiness.  At  all  events,  by  the  time  she 
had  regained  control  of  herself,  the  feeling  between  the 
two  had  become  gentler  and  more  sympathetic. 

"  'Tis  somewhat  late  in  the  day  to  find  a  friend  who 
can  be  sorry  for  me,"  remarked  the  baronet  ruefully: 
"  and  there  have  been  times  when  I  might  have  looked 


DUST.  355 

for  it  more  than  I  do  now.  Grantley  and  I  were  friends ; 
but  affairs  turned  out  so,  that  one  or  other  of  us  had 
to  give  up  everything:  and  he  was  the  one  to  do  it.  It 
looks  pretty  bad,  in  one  way ;  but  the  amount  of  it  was 
that  I  cared  more  for  myself  than  I  did  for  him ;  and 
there  's  not  many  men  who  might  not  confess  to  as  much 
as  that.  Besides,  I  had  more  to  lose  than  he  had  :  I  was 
the  head  of  the  house,  and  the  name  and  the  existence 
of  the  business  would  go  with  me.  But  'twas  a  damned 
gentlemanly  thing  of  him  to  do  what  he  did,  and  I  'm 
free  to  confess  I  wouldn't  have  done  it  in  his  place.  'Tis 
bad  enough  to  suffer  for  your  own  fault,  but  it  must  be  a 
hard  business  to  go  down  for  the  fault  of  another  man — 
though  that 's  what  often  happens  in  this  world,  vvbether 
we  want  it  or  not.  You  see,  my  dear,  there  was  always 
a  bit  of  the  gambler  in  me,  and  I  used  to  have  wonderful 
luck.  When  I  was  quite  a  young  fellow,  I  used  to  sit 
up  night  after  night  at  the  clubs,  and  it  struck  me  that 
since  where  one  fortune  was  made  and  kept,  ten  to  a 
score  were  lost,  it  would  be  a  good  plan  to  arrange  mat- 
ters so  that  what  so  many  lost,  one  should  win — and  I 
that  one.  One  thing  led  to  another,  and  the  end  of  it 
was  that  I  set  up  a  place  called  Raffett's — though  only 
two  or  three  men  knew  that  I  had  anything  to  do  with 
it ;  and  all  I  need  say  about  it  now  is,  that  more  money 
came  to  us  by  that  quiet  little  place,  than  by  the  bank 
itself :  aye,  a  good  deal  more,  begad  1 

"A  hundred  times  I  might  have  sold  out  for  enough 
to  buy  half  Old  Jewry  with :  but  I  liked  the  fun  of  the 
thing,  and  there  seemed  no  chance  of  losing.  We  did  lose, 
at  last,  though,  and  by  wholesale,  too.  There  was  no  ac- 
counting for  it :  'twas  more  like  a  special  miracle  than 
anything  I  ever  knew  of.  I  knew  the  luck  must  change 
some  time,  so  I  kept  putting  in  to  fill  up  the  hole,  until 
I  put  in  all  of  my  own  that  I  had  in  the  world.  Then  I 
took  from  the  bank :  hadn't  any  business  to  do  it,  of 


856  DUST. 

course ;  but  it  was  sure  to  come  all  right  in  the  end,  if 
nobody  found  it  out.  That  was  the  weak  point :  some- 
body did  find  it  out ;  and  Grautley  was  the  man.  He 
came  straight  to  me,  and  asked  me  what  I  was  about.  I 
tried  to  stop  him  off;  but  it  wouldn't  do.  He  forced  me 
to  own  up :  and  then  the  question  came,  What  was  to 
happen  next  ?  I  was  a  ruined  man,  and  the  bank  was  as 
good  as  gone,  if  the  truth  came  out.  Grantley  was  a 
careful  fellow,  and  he  had  saved  a  vast  deal  of  money  ; 
and  I  asked  him  to  help  me  out  of  the  scrape.  We  looked 
into  the  thing — he  cared  a  great  deal  for  me  in  those 
days,  and  as  much,  maybe,  for  the  credit  of  the  bank — 
and  found  that  it  would  take  all  he  'd  got  to  make  good 
only  what  was  gone  from  the  bank,  not  to  speak  of  the 
rest  of  it ;  and  to  make  it  worse,  there  was  no  way  of 
putting  the  money  back  without  betraying  that  it  had 
been  taken  out  irregularly. 

"  But  at  last  he  got  an  idea,  and  I  give  him  credit  for 
it.  'It  must  become  known,  Frank,'  he  said  to  me, 
'  that  the  bank  has  been  robbed  by  somebody.  You  are 
the  bank,  and  it  stands  or  falls  with  you.  It  won't 
make  so  much  difference  about  me.  You  may  have 
what  I  've  got,  and  I  '11  leave  the  country.  Let  'em  think 
I  took-it,  and  that  you  replaced  it.  I  can  make  my  own 
way,  somewhere  else,  under  another  name  ;  and  the  con- 
cern will  be  saved.  Take  care  of  my  wife  and  child :  it 
won't  do  to  take  them  with  me,  but  maybe  I  can  send 
for  them  after  a  bit.  And  do  you  let  gambling  alone  for 
the  future.' 

"It  was  a  good  offer,  and  I  took  it,  as  most  men 
would  have  done  in  my  place.  I  'm  not  sure,  now,  but 
I  might  as  well  have  let  it  alone.  At  any  rate,  off  he 
went,  and  that  was  the  last  I  heard  from  him  for  twenty 
years,  except  when  I  sent  him  word,  a  little  while  after, 
that  his  wife  had  died.  He  wrote  back  asking  me  to  edu- 
cate the  child,  and  do  the  best  I  could  for  her :  where  he 


DUST.  857 

was,  was  no  place  for  her.  Meanwhile,  I  was  contriving 
to  keep  along,  but  no  more :  we  never  had  any  luck  after 
lie  left.  That  confounded  Raffett's  kept  draining  me: 
I  had  ceased  to  be  the  owner  of  the  place,  as  I  had  pro- 
mised him;  but  the  other  men  had  a  hold  on  me,  by 
threatening  to  expose  me  if  I  didn't  let  'em  have  what 
they  wanted  ;  and  they  wanted  more  than  I  could  find 
of  my  own  to  give  'em.  So,  what  with  one  thing  and 
another,  when  he  came  back  under  his  assumed  name 
last  year,  he  found  things  pretty  nearly  in  as  bad  a  way 
as  when  he  went  off. 

"  I  may  have  been  mistaken,"  continued  the  baronet, 
speaking  in  a  more  uncertain  tone ;  "  but  I  had  been 
worried  so  much,  and  had  so  much  underhand  fighting 
to  do,  that  I  thought  Grantley  meant  me  no  good.  He 
had  in  his  possession  some  papers — letters  that  had 
passed  between  us,  and  other  things — that  enabled  him, 
if  he  chose,  to  turn  me  out  of  house  and  home  and  into 
jail  at  a  day's  notice.  I  might  have  stood  it  for  my- 
self; but  there  was  my  boy  Tom :  and  I  felt  that  I  could 
sooner  kill  Grantley  than  let  Tom  know  I  hadn't  been 
what  they  call  an  honest  man.  There  was  Perdita,  too : 
he  would  be  sure  to  make  himself  known  to  his  own 
daughter  if  to  nobody  else ;  and  he  wouldn't  be  likely 
to  do  that  without  letting  her  know  that  he  was  not  the 
man  who  robbed  the  bank.  And  if  Perdita  knew  it,  all 
London  would  know  it,  for  she  never  was  a  friend  of 
mine,  and  would  jump  at  a  chance  to  ruin  me." 

"You  are  wrong,"  said  Marion,  who  was  sitting  with 
her  hands  tightly  clasped  in  her  lap,  and  her  eyes  fixed 
with  a  sad  sternness  upon  the  narrator:  "Madame 
Desmoines  has  had  the  papers  within  her  reach  for  six 
months,  and  has  never  opened  them  until,  perhaps,  yes- 
terday." 

"Well,  right  or  wrong  makes  no  difference  now.  I 
tried  to  make  Grantley  give  me  back  the  papers,  by  fair 


858  DUST. 

means :  and  when  he  refused,  I  was  more  than  ever  per- 
suaded he  meant  mischief;  so  I  resolved  to  get  them  in 
spite  of  him.  I  found  he  always  carried  them  about 
with  him :  and  then  I  thought  there  was  no  way  for  it 
hut  to  hire  a  footpad  to  rob  him.  But  it  was  too  risky 
a  job  to  trust  to  any  one  .  .  .  ." 

Marion  rose,  and  stood,  with  one  trembling  hand 
grasping  the  back  of  her  chair.  She  could  bear  it  no 
longer. 

"Don't  tell  me  any  more  I"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  low, 
almost  threatening  voice.  "  1  know  the  rest.  You  did 
it  yourself,.  Sir  Francis.  You  killed  him — you  murdered 
him  in  the  dark :  and  he  was  the  noblest,  SAveetest,  most 
generous  of  men,  and  never  harmed  a  human  being! 
Can  nothing  make  you  feel  that  you  have  been  wicked  ? 
And  you  tried  to  kill  him  once  before — yes  I  that  night 
of  the  thunderstorm.  A  man  like  you  has  no  right  to 
die  I  You  ought  to  live  forever,  and  have  no  rest  I" 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  the  baronet,  not  seeming  to 
feel  much  emotion,  "Providence  is  more  merciful  than 
you  are,  though  not  so  just,  I  dare  say :  it  doesn't  give 
a  man  earthly  immortality  on  account  of  his  sins.  You 
see,  I  can't  feel  as  shocked  at  myself  as  you  do ;  I  've 
known  myself  so  long,  I  've  got  used  to  it.  And  if  you 
would  think  over  my  crimes,  quietly,  for  the  next  twenty 
years  or  so,  maybe  you  'd  not  be  so  anxious  to  have  me 
damned.  We  are  what  we  are,  and  some  of  us  have 
bad  luck  into  the  bargain.  That 's  all  I  I  'm  glad  you 
found  me  out,  however  you  did  it ;  for  I  don't  believe 
I  should  have  had  the  pluck  to  confess  I  killed  him, 
when  it  came  to  the  point.  It  was  a  dirty  piece  of  busi- 
ness ;  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  .  .  .  one  thing,  I  was 
just  as  likely  to  put  the  bullet  into  my  own  heart  as  his. 
But,"  continued  the  dj  ing  man,  by  a  great  effort  raising 
himself  in  his  bed,  and  lifting  his  arms,  while  the  blood 
rushed  to  his  face,  making  it  dark  and  lurid,  "  but  when 


DUST.  359 

I  knew  that  in  taking  his  life  I  had  been  led  on  to  take 
the  life  of  my  own  darling  boy — that  I  loved  a  thousand 
times  more  than  I  hated  anybody  else — by  the  living 
God,  I  could  have  murdered  Grantley  over  again,  out  of 
revenge  !" 

These  are  the  last  words  known  to  have  been  uttered 
by  Sir  Francis  Bendibow.  He  became  unconscious  soon 
after,  and  died  the  same  afternoon.  They  were  terrible 
words ;  and  yet,  when  Marion  recalled  them  long  after- 
wards, it  seemed  to  her  that  there  might  be,  perhaps, 
something  in  them  indicative  of  a  moral  state  less  ab- 
jectly depraved  than  was  suggested  by  his  previous  half- 
complacent  apathy. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE  morning  after  Bendibow's  death,  Merton  Fill- 
more  sent  word  to  the  Marquise  Desnioines  that  he 
would  call  upon  her  that  evening,  if  she  found  it  conve- 
nient to  receive  him.  She  returned  answer  that  she 
would  expect  him. 

Ever  since  her  parting  with  Philip  Lancaster,  the 
Marquise  had  kept  herself  secluded.  After  such  an  ex- 
perience, even  she  needed  time  to  draw  her  breath  and 
look  about  her.  It  was  more  like  defeat  than  anything 
else  that  had  ever  happened  to  her.  It  was  defeat  in 
fact,  if  not  altogether  in  form.  She  had,  whether  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously,  shaped  all  her  course  and  pur- 
pose to  the  end  of  being  loved  by  Philip ;  and  he  did 
not  love  her.  Nothing  could  disguise  that  truth:  and 
it  was  additionally  embittered  by  the  discovery,  almost 
unexpected  to  herself,  that  she  not  only  preferred  him 
to  other  men,  but  that  she  loved  him,  and  that  he  was 
the  only  man  she  ever  had  loved.  She  had  allowed  him 
to  perceive  this,  and  the  perception  had  failed  to  kindle 
in  him  a  response.  No  doubt,  she  had  assumed  on  the 
instant  the  semblance  of  cool  indifference ;  she  had  di- 
vined her  failure  almost  before  she  had  made  it ;  she  had 
listened  to  his  reply  with  a  smile,  and  had  dismissed 
him  with  defiance;  but,  after  all,  she  knew  in  her  in- 
most heart  that  she  had  been  worsted ;  and  whether 
Philip  were  as  intimately  conscious  of  it,  or  were  con- 
scious of  it  at  all,  made  little  difference.  She  had  of- 
fered him  more  than  any  woman  can  offer  with 
impunity,  and  he  had  professed  himself  unable  to  ac- 
cept it. 

350 


DUST.  361 

After  he  left  her,  she  was  for  a  time  supported  by  the 
ardor  of  defiant  anger,  which  made  her  feel  as  if  she  had 
never  been  conquered, — had  scarcely  begun  to  fight,  in- 
deed :  and  had  illimitable  reserves  of  strength  still  to 
draw  upon.  But  when  this  mood  had  flamed  itself  out, 
she  began  to  realize  how  little  her  strength  and  re- 
sources could  avail  her.  She  had  no  longer  any  object 
to  contend  for.  She  had  lost  the  day,  and,  no  matter 
what  her  vigor  and  courage  might  be,  the  day  in  which 
she  might  redeem  herself  would  never  dawn.  Philip 
was,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  exanimate;  and  she 
might  as  hopefully  strive,  by  dint  of  her  beauty  and 
brilliance,  to  restore  life  to  a  corpse  from  the  hospital, 
as  to  stimulate  Philip  to  feel  even  so  much  emotiou  to- 
ward her  as  would  make  him  care  whether  she  loved  him 
or  hated  him.  The  shock  of  Marion's  loss,  and  the  self- 
revelation  it  had  wrought  in  him,  had  put  him  above  or 
below  the  reach  of  other  feelings.  He  had  collapsed ; 
and  it  was  this  collapse  which  had  rendered  him  indomi- 
table even  by  the  Marquise  Desmoines. 

What  was  left  to  her  ?  The  injury  was  too  deep  not 
to  demand  requital.  But  how  could  she  avenge  herself 
on  Philip  ?  What  could  she  make  him  suffer  that  he 
was  not  already  suffering  ?  His  life  was  broken  up  :  he 
had  lost  his  wife  and  his  place  in  the  world, — for  she 
knew  Philip  well  enough  to  be  aware  that  it  would  be 
a  long  while  (if  ever)  before  a  man  of  his  organization 
would  be  able  to  renew  his  relations  with  society.  Surely 
hatred  itself  could  not  pursue  him  further.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done. 

And  yet  to  do  nothing  was  intolerable  to  Perdita :  she 
could  have  borne  anything  else  better.  Inaction  gnawed 
her  heart  and  made  her  existence  bitter.  But  what 
could  she  do  ?  Should  she  kill  him  ?  No :  life  could 
hardly  be  so  dear  to  him  as  to  make  that  worth  while. 
Should  she  kill  herself  ?  That,  indeed,  was  as  likely  as 


862  DUST. 

anything  else  to  put  an  end  to  her  unrest :  but  should 
she  allow  Philip  to  imagine  that  she  had  died  for  love  of 
him  ?  She  laughed,  and  shook  her  head.  It  was  while 
she  was  in  this  mood  that  Fillmore's  letter  came,  men- 
tioning Bendibow's  death.  The  news  interested  her, 
for  she  fancied  it  might  in  some  way  bear  upon  the 
subject  that  possessed  her  thoughts.  She  awaited  his 
arrival  with  impatience. 

He  came  punctually,  as  usual ;  but  his  face  and  de- 
meanor, as  he  entered  the  room,  were  singularly  reserve 
and  sombre.  The  Marquise,  if  she  noticed  this  at  all 
(and  it  would  be  hard  to  say  what  a  woman  like  her 
does  not  notice),  laid  it  to  the  account  of  the  death-scene 
at  which  he  had  been  present.  As  for  herself,  she  felt 
no  regret,  and  was  not  in  the  vein  to  express  what  she 
did  not  feel.  She  greeted  the  lawyer  coolly  and  briefly, 
and  went  at  once  to  the  subject. 

"  Sir  Francis  has  died  in  good  time,  and  with  good 
taste.  I  had  not  given  him  credit  for  so  much  considera- 
tion." 

"Yes,  madame,"  replied  Filhnore,  bowing.  "He 
has  solved  many  difficulties.  Possibly  it  was  only  the 
struggle  against  misfortune  that  kept  him  in  life  so 
long.  The  death  of  his  son  was  his  death-blow.  His 
ruin  was  a  relief  to  him." 

"Fortune  and  misfortune  are  in  our  feeling,  not  in 
our  circumstances :  that  is  an  old  story,"  observed  Per- 
dita.  "  Well,  did  he  die  repentant  ?" 

"He  was  unconscious  for  several  hours  before  his 
death,  and  I  was  not  present  when  his  last  words  were 
spoken." 

"  'Tis  a  pity  he  should  have  been  alone.  He  might 
have  said  something  worth  hearing.  A  good  many  se- 
crets have  died  with  him." 

"He  was  not  alone,  madame." 

"  Who  was  with  him  ?" 


DUST.  863 

"Mrs.  Lancaster." 

Perdita  was  dumb  for  a  moment.  "  Did  you  say  Mrs. 
Philip  Lancaster?"  she  then  asked,  bending  forward 
curiously. 

Fillmore  bowed  in  assent. 

"  I  did  not  know  she  was  in  London,"  said  the  Mar- 
quise, after  another  short  pause.  "Her  husband  cer- 
tainly was  not  aware.  .  .  .  How  did  this  happen  ?" 

"  It  was  the  baronet's  wish,"  replied  Fillmore.  "Her 
name  had  been  often  mentioned  by  him  since  his  catas- 
trophe :  her  kind  behavior  to  him  at  Vauxhall — " 

"  What  had  she  to  do  with  him  at  Vauxhall  V"  inter- 
rupted Perdita,  making  herself  erect  in  her  chair. 

"  I  am  not  acquainted  with  the  details  of  the  matter," 
said  Fillmore,  "  but  it  seems  that  she  wished  to  consult 
him  on  a  subject  of  importance,  and,  owing  to  the  mys- 
terious habits  he  had  adopted  of  late,  she  was  obliged 
to  seek  him  at  Vauxhall.  He  was  taken  with  a  fit — in- 
deed, I  believe  it  was  the  disturbance  which  this  occa- 
sioned that  first  discovered  him  to  her — " 

"This  is  a  strange  story  I"  Perdita  broke  out.  "I 
had  heard  that  Mrs.  Lancaster  was  at  Vauxhall,  but 
the  name  of  the  gentleman  with  her  was  not  Francis 
Bendibow." 

"  You  yourself  saw  her  there,  did  you  not  ?"  inquired 
Fillmore,  with  a  steady  look. 

"Are  you  a  detective  as  well  as  a  solicitor,  Mr.  Fill- 
more  ?"  demanded  the  Marquise,  smiling  ironically;  "I 
did  see  her  there,  on  the  arm  of  Mr.  Tom  Moore." 

"I  do  but  repeat  what  is  known  and  spoken  of  by 
others,"  said  Fillmore:  "but  it  seems  to  be  generally 
conceded  that  her  meeting  with  Moore  was  accidental, — 
he  assisted  her  in  getting  a  carriage  to  take  the  baronet 
away.  She  was  guilty  of  great  imprudence,  but,  it 
seems,  in  a  cause  which  she  thought  urgent  enough  to 
justify  it.  As  I  was  saying,  Sir  Francis  never  lost  the 


384  DUST. 

recollection  of  her  kindness,  and  toward  the  last  he  ex- 
pressed a  strong  desire  to  speak  with  her.  I  went  to 
her  house  in  search  of  her ;  but  was  informed  that  she 
had  been  absent  since  the  preceding  day,  and  it  was  not 
known  where  she  was." 

"We  must  admit  her  conduct  to  be  singular,"  re- 
marked Perdita  with  a  slight  laugh.  "  No  doubt,  as 
you  say,  it  was  justifiable  !  Where  did  you  find  her  ?" 

"Quite  accidentally,  I  met  Lady  Flanders,  and,  in 
the  course  of  conversation,  was  informed  by  her  ladyship 
that  Mrs.  Lancaster  was  at  her  house." 

"  Ah  1  Lady  Flanders  .  .   .   But — well,  go  on !" 

"Lady  Flanders  said,"  continued  Fillmore,  fixing 
his  eyes  in  a  marked  way  on  Perdita,  "that  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster had  felt  herself  grossly  injured  by  .  .  .  a  person 
from  whom  she  had  every  right  to  expect  different 
treatment,  and  that,  in  her  distress  and  defenselessness, 
she  had  accepted  Lady  Flanders'  proposal  to  make  her 
ladyship's  house  her  home  for  a  few  days." 

"Keally,  Mr.  Fillmore,  a  less  charitable  man  than 
you  might  say  that  Lady  Flanders  had  assisted  Mrs. 
Lancaster  to  run  away  from  her  husband." 

"Supposing  Mrs.  Lancaster  to  have  had  that  inten- 
tion," replied  Fillmore  coldly,  "the  general  opinion 
seems  to  be  that  her  husband  had  spared  her  the  neces- 
sity." 

"  How  do  you  wish  me  to  understand  that  ?" 

"That  Philip  Lancaster  had  planned  an  elopement  on 
his  own  account." 

"Positively,  you  amuse  me!"  exclaimed  Perdita, 
gazing  at  him  intently.  "Are  you  going  to  add  the  in- 
spiration of  a  prophet  to  your  two  other  professions  ? 
Tell  me,  with  whom  has  Mr.  Philip  Lancaster  planned 
to  elope  ?" 

"  If  you  need  to  be  told  that,"  replied  Fillmore,  after 
a  considerable  pause,  "there  is  nothing  to  tell." 


DUST.  865 

The  Marquise  smiled.  "  Ah,  Mr.  Fillmore,"  said  she, 
"  you  are  not  so  clever  a  man  as  I  thought  I  Mr.  Lan- 
caster came  to  me  two  nights  ago ;  he  was  very  tired 
and  hungry,  poor  fellow ;  he  had  been  hunting  his  wife 
over  London,  and  seemed  to  think  she  might  have  taken 
refuge  with  me.  I  consoled  him  as  well  as  I  could,  and 
sent  him  away.  I  have  not  seen  or  heard  of  him  since 
then.  Unfortunately,  I  was  not  in  a  position  to  give 
him  the  comforting  information  I  have  just  heard  from 
you.  I  am  surprised  that  Lady  Flanders,  who  seems 
to  be  such  a  friend  of  homeless  wanderers,  had  not 
given  him  his  wife's  new  address.  He  told  me  that  he 
had  spoken  with  her  ladyship  that  very  afternoon." 

"I  know  nothing  about  that,"  said  Fillmore,  whose 
sombre  aspect  had  lightened  somewhat  during  this 
speech;  "but  I  found  Mrs.  Lancaster  at  Lady  Flan- 
ders' house:  she  went  with  me  to  see  Bendibow,  and 
afterwards  I  accompanied  her  back  to  Lady  Flanders'. 
She  seemed  to  be  in  a  very  low  and  anxious  frame  of 
mind  ;  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  she  has  been  with 
Lady  Flanders  ever  since  she  left  her  own  house.  As 
to  the  suggestion  about  Mr.  Moore,  I  have  the  honor  of 
that  gentleman's  acquaintance,  and  I  could  easily  con- 
vince Mr.  Philip  Lancaster  that  he  has  no  cause  for 
misgiving  on  that  score." 

"The  fact  still  remains  that  Mr.  Lancaster  did  not 
know  where  his  wife  was.  However,  we  can  let  that 
pass.  Has  it  occurred  to  you,  sir,  that  you  owe  me  an 
apology  ?" 

"I  cannot  find  words  in  which  to  apologize  for  so 
great  a  wrong,"  said  Fillmore,  in  a  husky  voice.  "I 
cannot  express,  either,  the  joy  I  feel  that  it  was  a  wrong. 
Oh,  madame  ....  Perdita!  how  can  I  think  about 
you  or  judge  you  dispassionately  !  You  cannot  punish 
me  so  much  as  the  anguish  I  have  endured  has  already 
punished  me !  I  thought  I  could  not  bear  not  to  have 


366  DUST. 

you  love  me :  but  now,  that  seems  a  delight  in  compari- 
son with  the  misery  of  thinking  that  you  had  given 
yourself  to  him." 

"Well,  there  seems  to  have  been  a  contagion  of 
error,"  said  Perdita,  with  a  queer  smile.  "Now  that 
so  much  has  been  corrected,  perhaps  you  may  even 
come  to  your  senses  with  regard  to  me !  You  are  cer- 
tainly a  persistent  man :  'tis  a  pity  I  am  not  a  yielding 
woman." 

"  I  can  never  give  you  up  !"  Fillmore  said  again. 

"  What  1  Had  you  not  given  me  up  an  hour  ago  ?" 

"  No :  less  than  ever.  I  would  have  followed  you — 
anywhere !" 

"It  would  have  been  in  vain,"  said  Perdita,  shaking 
her  head.  "I  have  too  much  regard  for  you  to  let  you 
pick  me  out  of  the  mud,  Mr.  Fillmore :  and  too  little 
regard  for  myself  to  submit  to  be  saved  on  those  terms. 
When  I  am  driven  to  extremity,  there  is  another  bride- 
groom who  is  waiting  for  me  even  more  patiently  than 
you  are,  and  who,  unlike  you,  is  certain  to  have  me  at 
last." 

"Do  not  smile  so,  and  talk  of  death!"  exclaimed 
Fillmore  passionately.  "  There  is  more  life  in  the 
thought  of  you  than  in  the  flesh  and  blood  of  any  other 
woman !" 

"  You  are  welcome  to  the  thought  of  me,  if  you  will 
forego  the  rest!"  returned  Perdita  with  a  sigh.  "But 
really,  sir,  that  is  a  finer  compliment  than  I  should  have 
expected  to  hear  from  a  man  so  reserved  as  you.  No — 
let  us  speak  of  something  else.  If  all  that  you  tell  me 
be  true,  we  may  expect  a  reconciliation  between  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Lancaster.  It  will  only  be  a  question  of  time." 

Fillmore  moved  his  head,  but  said  nothing. 

"You  have  no  sentiment,"  pursued  the  Marquise 
laughingly.  "  It  will  be  an  affecting  scene,  if  you  think 
of  it  1  Lovers'  reconciliations  are  worth  the  quarrel  it 


DUST.  867 

costs  to  have  them.  Our  friend  Philip  will  be  happier 
than  ever,  and  he  will  give  us  a  beautiful  poem,  in- 
spired by  his  new  experience ;  something  that  will 
make  '  Iduna '  seem  crude  and  cold  I  There  will  be  no 
drawback  to  his  contentment  I" 

Something  ironical  in  Perdita's  tone  struck  Fillmore's 
ear,  but  he  did  not  understand  it,  and  remained  silent. 

"Too  much  happiness  is  dangerous,"  she  went  on: 
"  it  would  be  the  part  of  friendship  to  abate  a  little  of 
it.  What  do  you  think '?" 

"I  am  no  friend  of  Mr.  Lancaster's,"  said  Fillmore, 
shortly. 

"You  are  very  dull,  sir  I"  exclaimed  the  Marquise, 
giving  him  a  sparkling  glance.  "  If  you  are  no  friend 
of  his,  think  how  much  reason  I  have  to  be  his  friend ! 
When  he  was  a  youth,  whom  no  one  knew,  he  formed 
the  acquaintance  of  the  Marquis,  and  came  to  our  house, 
and  read  me  his  first  little  poems,  which  I  praised,  and 
encouraged  him  to  write  more,  so  that  his  first  book,  the 
'Sunshine  of  Eevolt,'  was  my  godchild,  and  at  that  time 
I  was  its  only  reader.  I  saw  that  he  had  intellect ;  but 
his  nature  was  timid,  suspicious,  self-conscious,  and  cold ; 
he  dissected  himself  and  mistrusted  others.  He  had  the 
poetic  gift,  but  wanted  the  courage  and  vigor  of  the  heart 
to  use  it :  his  fear  of  ridicule  made  him  prefer  criticism 
to  creation :  he  could  imagine  himself  to  be  so  much  that 
he  was  content  to  become  nothing.  His  ambition  made 
him  vain,  and  his  vanity  made  him  indolent.  He  needed 
a  stronger  and  more  active  spirit, — something  to  make 
him  plunge  into  difficulties  and  struggles,  and  not  to  eare 
if  fools  shrugged  their  shoulders.  I  thought  I  could  sup- 
ply what  he  lacked, — that  I  could  give  him  the  blood  and 
the  warmth  to  render  his  great  faculties  practical.  He 
ought  to  have  understood  the  value  of  such  companion- 
ship as  I  offered  him  1"  said  Perdita,  speaking  with 
more  intensity.  "  But  what  he  says  is  not  like  what  he. 


368  DUST. 

is  ;  he  is  a  man  who  has  fears  and  hesitations, — the  kind 
of  man  that  I  despise  !  What  right  had  he  to  marry  V 
Was  not  I  better  than  marriage  ?  But  really,  Mr.  Fill- 
more,  these  poets  are  great  fools :  they  promise  a  great 
deal,  and  some  of  them  write  very  charmingly ;  but  a 
lawyer  is  more  of  a  man  !" 

Fillmoi-e's  face  indicated  that  he  was  beginning  to  re- 
cover from  his  dullness.  Still,  he  dared  not  hope  too 
soon;  it  might  be  that  Perdita's  words,  as  well  as 
Philip's,  could  imply  more  than  she  meant.  He  waited 
to  hear  more.  But  she  recommenced  at  an  unexpected 
point. 

"  I  have  read  those  papers,"  she  said,  rising  and  go- 
ing to  a  secretary,  from  a  drawer  of  which  she  took 
Grantley's  packet.  "  Sir  Francis  knew  when  to  die :  here 
is  what  would  have  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  live. 
He  was  false,  cowardly  and  selfish  beyond  belief !  And 
my  father — Charles  Grantley — was  as  noble  as  the  other 
was  base :  too  noble !  I  have  no  sympathy  with  such 
generosity.  Let  a  man  be  as  true  as  steel,  but  as  hard 
and  deadly,  too,  when  there  is  need  !  But  he  was  my 
father :  I  know  that  now,  and  I  'm  going  to  act  upon  it  1" 

"  In  what  way  ?"  asked  Fillmore. 

"To  have  my  rights,"  answered  Perdita,  lifting  her 
head. 

"  Who  has  deprived  you  of  them  ?" 

She  laughed.  "That  is  no  more  than  I  expected.  I 
have  been  yielding  and  complaisant  so  long  that  people 
— even  you — have  forgotten  1  have  any  rights  to  claim. 
But  I  am  tired  .  .  .  that  does  not  amuse  me  any 
longer.  I  am  going  to  take  what  my  father  gave  me." 

"  What  did  he  give  you  ?" 

"  Twenty  thousand  pounds." 

"  Of  course  you  are  not  in  earnest,"  said  Fillmore 
with  a  smile. 

"Mr,  Lancaster  will  not  agree  with  you." 


DUST.  339 

The  lawyer  looked  at  her,  and  became  grave.  "  It  is 
too  late.  You  passed  it  on  to  him." 

"No!"  said  Perdita,  planting  her  white  hand  on  the 
papers  upon  the  table.  "Philip  Lancaster  appropriated 
a  legacy  which  I  did  not  know  belonged  to  me.  There 
was  at  that  time  no  proof  that  the  author  of  the  «vill 
was  my  father.  There  was  only  a  presumption,  which, 
for  reasons  that  I  gave  you,  I  refused  to  adopt.  The 
death  of  Sir  Francis,  and  the  opening  of  this  packet,  have 
changed  the  whole  matter.  The  proof  is  here,  and  the 
reasons  that  might  influence  me  to  disregard  it  no  longer 
exist.  I  shall  claim  my  right:  I  shall  take  what  is 
mine  :  let  him  prevent  me  who  can  !" 

"The  possession  by  the  other  party  makes  against 
you,"  said  Fillmore.  "Your  surrender  of  the  property 
would  be  an  obstacle  to  your  claiming  it  now.  It  is  not 
easy  to  play  fast  and  loose  with  twenty  thousand  pounds. 
You  should  have  stated  your  objections  earlier." 

"Tell  me,  sir,  what  proof  was  there,  until  now,  that 
Mr.  Grant  was  my  father  ?" 

"There  was  probability;  and  an  understanding  that 
proof  could  be  produced  if  necessary." 

"But  it  was  not  produced!  And  in  the  absence  of 
it,  how  could  Philip  Lancaster,  any  more  than  I,  lay 
claim  to  the  legacy  ?  His  belief  goes  for  nothing ;  a 
man  would  believe  anything  for  the  sake  of  twenty 
thousand  pounds.  The  will  directs  that  he  is  to  possess 
the  legacy  only  in  case  that  I  reject  it.  It  is  only 
within  these  two  days  that  I  have  known  it  was  mine 
to  reject.  But  I  shall  not  reject  it;  I  shall  keep  it: — 
do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  he  has  had  the  audacity  to 
lay  hands  upon  it  ?" 

"  I  scarcely  know  even  now  whether  you  are  in  ear- 
nest," said  Fillmore,  who  was  certainly  perplexed. 
"  There  may  have  been  technical  delays  in  the  way  of 
his  actually  touching  the  money,  but  there  can  be  no 


370  DUST. 

doubt  that  he  has  been  regarded  as  the  owner  of  it,  and 
has  acted  accordingly.  He  has  incurred  expenses,  in 
the  furnishing  of  his  house,  and  other  matters,  which 
he  never  could  have  afforded  otherwise.  For  you  to  in- 
sist upon  your  claim  now,  would  inevitably  be  his  ruin." 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  that,"  said  the  Mar- 
quise, smiling,  "though  I  may  be  sorry  that  he  has 
been  so  precipitate." 

"This  can  only  be  caprice  in  you,"  said  Fillmore, 
gravely.  "The  legacy  is  nothing  to  you.  You  have 
property  to  ten  times  that  amount." 

"  I  must  be  allowed  to  understand  my  own  require- 
ments, sir." 

"  You  must  have  other  reasons  than  those  ypu  state. 
It  is  not  to  benefit  yourself  but  to  injure  him  that  you 
do  this." 

The  Marquise  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  Say,  if  you 
like,  that  to  injure  him  benefits  me." 

"  How  should  it  benefit  you  ?" 

"  How  should  it  not  ?  Does  it  not  benefit  me  to  in- 
jure my  enemy  ? — the  man  I  hate  !  Has  he  not  injured 
me  ?  Is  it  no  injury  to  have  such  things  said  of  me  as 
you  repeated  a  while  ago  ?  Could  they  have  been  said 
if  he  had  not  authorized  them  ?  Do  you  pretend  you 
love  me,  and  do  you  let  me  be  insulted  by  a  man  who 
gives  it  to  be  believed  that  I  agreed  to  elope  with  him  ? 
Oh,  if  I  were  a  man  ...  no  I  A  woman  is  better  1 — 
except  when  she  is  fool  enough  to  love  I" 

Fillmore  stood  up,  his  face  reddening.  "No  man 
shall  insult  you  without  giving  an  account  to  me,"  he 
said,  speaking  with  a  certain  stiffness  of  utterance. 
"My  love  for  you  gives  me  that  right,  whether  you 
admit  it  or  not.  I  should  be  slow  to  believe  that  Mr. 
Lancaster  can  be  capable  of  doing  what  you  suspect ; 
but  if  he  did,  he  shall  answer  for  it," 

"  In  what  way  ?" 


DUST.  371 

"In  the  way  customary  between  gentlemen,"  replied 
Fillmore  haughtily. 

"That  will  not  suit  me,"  said  the  Marquise,  shaking 
her  head.  "  I  am  neither  old  enough  nor  young  enough 
to  care  to  be  the  subject  of  a  duel,  especially  on  such 
grounds.  I  must  fight  my  battles  in  my  own  way ;  but 
you  shall  be  my  weapon,  if  you  will." 

"  Your  weapon  ?" 

"  Yes  :  my  legal  thunderbolt  I  You  shall  conduct  my 
case  against  him." 

"  I  cannot  do  that  1"  said  Fillmore  after  a  pause. 

"Can  you  not  ?  Then  there  can  be  nothing  more  be- 
tween you  and  me.  I  will  never  see  you  again." 

"  It  would  not  be  honorable,"  exclaimed  Fillmore, 
bending  forward  and  grasping  the  edges  of  the  table 
with  his  hands.  "  I  was  employed  to  draw  up  the  will, 
and  I  have  acted  in  Mrs.  Lancaster's  interests,  and  in 
those  of  her  husband.  I  could  not  retain  my  standing 
and  integrity  as  a  lawyer,  and  do  what  you  ask.  I  could 
not  justify  it  to  myself  as  a  man.  My  profession  has 
brought  me  to  a  knowledge  of  all  the  crime  and  weak- 
ness and  rascality  in  human  nature ;  and  I  have  always 
tried  to  do  right  and  justice,  and  I  have  never,  for  any 
cause,  been  a  rascal  myself.  If  I  were  to  do  this,  it 
would  be  the  last  act  of  my  professional  life."  Fillmore 
was  extraordinarily  moved ;  his  voice  faltered,  and  he 
stopped. 

"  In  other  words,"  said  Perdita,  with  the  quiet  mer- 
cilessness  that  sometimes  showed  itself  in  her  character, 
"  you  think  our  acquaintance  has  gone  for  enough.  I 
agree  with  you,  sir.  I  will  not  detain  you  any  longer." 

u  Xo :  I  cannot  give  you  up,"  returned  Fillmore,  after 
a  short  silence.  He  sighed  heavily.  In  the  struggle  of 
opposing  wills,  he  felt  that  the  woman  had  the  advan- 
tage. "If  I  refuse,"  he  said,  "you  threaten  me  with  a 
punishment  greater  than  I  can  bear.  iBut  if  I  consent 


872  DUST. 

.  .  ."  he  stepped  forward  and  put  his  hands  strongly 
upon  her  shoulders,  and  looked  with  power  into  her 
eyes.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  touched  her, 
save  to  take  her  hand  in  greeting  or  farewell.  She  could 
feel  the  emotion  that  made  his  arms  vibrate.  It  gave 
her  a  new  impression  of  him. 

"  What  do  you  wish  ?"  she  asked  in  a  gentle  tone. 

"What  will  you  give  me  in  return  for  what  I  give 
you?" 

Perdita  looked  down,  and  hesitated. 

u  AVhat  will  satisfy  you  ?"  she  asked  at  length. 

"You  will  satisfy  me  I  Nothing  else.  Will  you  give 
me  yourself  ?" 

"  For  that,  you  will  do  all  I  ask  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  then,  let  it  be  so  I"  she  said,  looking  up  with 
a  momentary  smile. 

Fillmore  stooped  and  kissed  her.  A  strange,  reckless 
sort  of  happiness  filled  his  heart.  He  was  no  longer 
the  man  he  had  been ;  but  Perdita  was  his  reward. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

ONE  morning  Lady  Flanders,  enveloped  in  a  dressing- 
gown  bought  at  a  bazaar  in  Damascus,  which  made  her 
look  like  the  Grand  Vizier  in  the  Arabian  Nights, 
knocked  at  the  room  which  her  guest,  Mrs.  Lancaster, 
was  occupying.  Marion,  who  had  not  yet  finished  her 
toilet,  opened  the  door,  and  Lady  Flanders  stalked 
in.  She  merely  nodded  a  good  morning,  and  did  not 
at  once  explain  the  reason  of  this  early  visitation. 
With  her  hands  behind  her,  she  began  to  pace  slowly 
up  and  down  the  room,  her  head  bent  and  her  shaggy 
brows  drawn  together:  altogether  rather  an  appal- 
ling spectacle.  At  length  she  halted,  felt  in  the  pocket 
of  her  caftan  for  her  snuff-box,  and  not  finding  it  there, 
sniffed,  rubbed  her  nose,  and  went  up  to  Marion,  who 
had  resumed  the  combing  of  her  hair  which  the  entrance 
of  her  ladyship  had  interrupted. 

"How  is  your  health  this  morning,  my  dear?"  she 
demanded,  scowling  clown  upon  her. 

"I  thank  you;  much  as  usual,"  replied  Marion  apa- 
thetically. 

"  Nonsense  !  You  are  not  well  at  all :  you  're  as  pale 
and  peaked  as  a  charity-school  girl!"  returned  the  old 
lady  testily.  u  You  haven't  improved  at  all  since  you 
came  to  my  house,  Mrs.  Lancaster :  and  yet  1  've  paid 
you  every  attention.  I  'm  displeased  at  it !" 

"  You  have  been  most  kind  to  me,  and  I — "  began 
Marion ;  but  the  other  interrupted  her  with  a  peremp- 
tory gesture. 

"  You  are  altogether  in  the  wrong,  Mrs.  Lancaster," 
she  exclaimed,  "and  you  should  have  discernment 
373 


374  DUST. 

enough  to  be  aware  of  it.  I  have  shown  you  no  kindness 
whatever :  'tis  a  thing  I  never  do  any  one ;  I  have  simply 
pleased  myself,  as  I  always  do :  and  'tis  as  likely  as  not 
I  have  got  you  and  your  husband  into  a  precious  scrape, 
only  for  the  gratification  of  my  own  antipathies.  I  have 
always  abominated  that  little  devil  of  a  Marquise  Des- 
moines,  and  I  was  determined  to  let  her  know  it  I  That 
is  the  whole  secret  of  the  matter  !" 

"I  shall  not  alter  my  opinion,  madam,"  returned 
Marion  with  a  smile,  "and  I  can  never  forget  the  sym- 
pathy and  protection  you  have  given  me.  But  I  am  un- 
happy :  and  I  feel,  now,  that  I  did  wrong  to  come  here. 
I  should  have  stayed  at  home  with  my  mother." 

"  Tliis  is  assurance,  upon  my  honor  !  Where  are  your 
manners,  ma'am  ?  Pray,  is  my  house  not  good  enough 
for  you  ?"  But,  having  made  these  inquiries  in  a 
haughty  and  fierce  way,  the  great  lady  suddenly  took 
Marion  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks. 

"  I  am  an  old  fool,  my  dear,"  said  she,  sitting  down 
with  a  disconsolate  air,  and  crossing  one  leg  over  the 
other.  "  I  'm  not  fit  to  be  trusted  alone  any  more.  My 
likings  and  my  dislikings  both  get  me  into  trouble.  I  fell 
in  love  with  you  the  minute  I  set  eyes  on  you.  For  fifty 
years,  at  least,  I  have  been  ashamed  of  being  a  woman, 
and  tried  all  I  could  to  act  as  if  I  were  a  man — doing  as 
men  do,  and  thinking  men's  thoughts — or,  at  any  rate, 
talking  as  if  I  thought  them.  And  now,  since  I  met 
you,  1  only  wish  I  were  more  a  woman  than  I  am  !  My 
dear,  you  are  the  finest  creature  that  ever  stood  in  petti- 
coats, and  nobody  is  good  enough  for  you.  And  when 
1  fancied  that  that  Philip  of  yours  didn't  appreciate  the 
prize  he  had  won — which,  if  he  were  the  best  man  alive, 
lie  couldn't  deserve — it  made  me  so  angry  that  I  could 
have  cut  that  handsome  white  throat  of  his  from  one 
ear  to  the  other.  And  as  if  that  wasn't  enough,  he 
must  accuse  you  of  improper  behavior — " 


DUST.  875 

"It  was  my  own  fault,  Lady  Flanders,"  said  Marion, 
interrupting.  "I'm  sure  I  behaved  very  badly,  and 
when  I  wouldn't  tell  him  what  I  had  been  doing,  I 

O/ 

think  he  did  quite  right  to  be  angry.  I  would  ask  him 
to  forgive  me,  if  he  were  here." 

"Don't  cry,  my  dear,  it  doesn't  suit  your  character, 
and  you  only  do  it  because  you  're  weak  and  worn  out, 
and  God  knows  I  don't  wonder  at  it  1  As  to  asking  him 
to  forgive  you,  you  would  do  no  such  thing — don't  tell 
me  ! — until  you  were  convinced  he  had  done  nothing  to 
be  forgiven  for.  And  now,"  continued  her  ladyship, 
again  diving  into  her  pocket  after  the  absent  snuff-box, 
"  I  've  come  to  tell  you  that  I  've  begun  to  think  he  may 
not  have  been  quite  so  bad  as  I  thought.  Mind — I  know 
nothing  more  yet :  I  only  make  an  inference.  You  know 
I  pounced  down  upon  that  clever  little  wretch,  the  Mar- 
quise ;  and  from  her  manner,  and  some  things  she  said, 
my  suspicions  about  her  and  that  husband  of  yours  were 
rather  confirmed  than  disconcerted.  So,  rather  than 
have  you  left  alone  in  your  house  for  people  to  snigger 
at,  I  persuaded  you  to  come  to  me  for  a  few  days,  until 
we  could  know  exactly  how  matters  stood.  Poor  child  ! 
You  were  in  a  state  of  mind  not  to  care  what  became  of 
you ;  and  when  I  met  your  husband,  that  same  after- 
noon, I  had  half  a — " 

"  You  met  him,  Lady  Flanders  ?  You  never  told  me 
that  1"  exclaimed  Marion,  looking  up  and  flushing. 

"I  know  I  didn't:  why  should  I?  I  had  no  doubt 
he  was  on  the  way  to  that  Marquise ;  and  it  was  the 
next  day,  as  I  tell  you,  that  I  pounced  down  on  her. 
Well,  then  .  .  .  you  shouldn't  interrupt  me,  my  dear ; 
and — I  wish  you  'd  touch  that  bell :  I  think  I  must  have 
left  my  snuff-box  on  my  dressing-table." 

The  box  was  brought,  and  her  ladyship  took  a  co- 
pious pinch  and  proceeded.  "  Last  night  I  heard  some- 
thing that  disturbed  and  surprised  me  a  good  deal,  and 


876  DUST. 

the  source  it  came  from  was  unimpeachable.  I  saw  Mr. 
Merton  Fillmore,  and  he  told  me  that  Madame  Des- 
moines  is  going  to  bring  an  action  against  Mr.  Lancas- 
ter to  recover  the  money  Mr.  Grantley  left  him.  At 
first  I  didn't  believe  it,  but  he  was  quite  serious,  and 
said  that  he  was  her  solicitor  in  the  matter.  I  told  him 
he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself: — but  'tis  no  use 
scolding  men  like  him,  they  only  bow  and  grin,  and 
that 's  an  end  of  it  I  I  asked  him  why  she  hadn't 
claimed  it  before,  and  he  tried  to  make  up  some  non- 
sense about  her  having  only  just  received  proof  that  she 
was  entitled  to  it.  I  told  him  it  was  a  scandalous  piece 
of  business,  and  that  he  ought  to  have  known  better 
than  to  let  himself  be  mixed  up  in  it ;  and  that  I  didn't 
believe  the  case  had  a  leg  to  stand  on.  But  between 
you  and  me,  my  dear,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  that  par- 
ticular kind  of  thieving  that  they  call  legal  justice  was 
on  her  side  ;  and  I  fear  there  may  be  danger.  But  what 
I  was  going  to  say  is,  that  if  she  is  actually  setting  to 
work  to  ruin  your  husband,  it  doesn't  look  much  as  if 
they  were  in  love  with  each  other,  does  it  ?" 

Marion  clasped  her  hands  together  softly  in  her  lap, 
and  her  eyes  shone.  A  long  sigh  breathed  from  her 
lips,  which  smiled  tremulously. 

"Aye,  aye,"  said  Lady  Flanders,  sighing  also,  and 
scowling,  "  I  know  how  it  is  !  You  are  feeling  happier 
than  if  I  'd  just  told  you  you  'd  been  made  heiress  of  all 
the  money  in  the  Bank  of  England  :  and  by-and-by, 
as  soon  as  you're  able  to  think  of  anything  else  but 
Philip,  you'll  turn  round  and  fly  into  a  terrible  pas- 
sion with  me,  because  I  misled  you  about  him.  But 
upon  my  honor,  my  dear,  it  was  only  your  dignity  and 
welfare  I  was  thinking  of.  And  mind  you,  this  may  be 
nothing  but  a  blind,  after  all." 

"No,"  said  Marion,  in  a  tender,  preoccupied  tone: 


DUST.  377 

"  it  is  true ;  I  am  sure  of  it.    I  have  been  the  wicked 
one.    If  he  will  only  forgive  me  !" 

"  Never  tell  a  person  of  my  age  and  character  that 
you  are  wicked,"  said  Lady  Flanders  dryly;  "it  is  not 
in  good  taste,  for  it  makes  'em  wonder  what  the  Re- 
cording Angel  will  call  them.  As  to  forgiving  you,  if 
he  were  here,  and  didn't — " 

"Do  you  know  where  he  is?"  exclaimed  Marion, 
springing  up.  "Is  he  in  the  house?  Oh,  Lady  Flan- 
ders, is  he — " 

"My  dear,  I  don't  know  where  he  is,  any  more  than 
you  do :  but  there  's  no  doubt  he  will  be  found  soon 
enough,  and  I  hope  the  lesson  he's  had  will  have  done 
him  good.  Meantime,  there's  another  matter  to  attend 
to.  Your  good  mother,  Mrs.  Lockliart,  you  know — we 
arranged  that  she  should  be  told  nothing  of  all  this 
trouble  ;  and  I  gave  her  to  understand,  when  I  took  you 
away,  that  you  and  your  husband  were  going  into  the 
country  to  visit  the  Earl,  and  'twas  uncertain  when 
you  'd  be  back.  Now,  I  got  a  letter  from  her  this  morn- 
ing, saying  that  this  was  the  anniversary  of  her  wed- 
ding-day, and  she  wanted  to  spend  it  in  the  old  house 
at  Hammersmith.  She  was  going  to  set  out  this  fore- 
noon; and  it  occurred  to  me  it  might  be  a  good  thing  ii' 
you  went  with  her.  As  your  husband  will  probably 
turn  up  during  the  next  few  days,  you  would  probably 
prefer  to  meet  him  in  her  company  rather  than  in 
mine." 

"Yes,  3*es,"  murmured  Marion,  who  had  already  be- 
gun hurriedly  to  complete  her  toilet:  "I  will  be  ready 
in  a  few  minutes.  Yes,  that  will  be  best  .  .  .  Oh,  I 
thank  God !  I  could  not  have  gone  on  living  :  but  now, 
even  if  he  doesn't  forgive  me,  I  am  happy." 

"  I  shall  contrive  so  as  to  see  him  before  you  do," 
said  her  ladyship ;  "and  after  I  've  done  with  him,  the 
only  person  he  won't  be  ready  to  forgive  will  be  me  I 


378  DUST. 

Oh,  'tis  just  as  well  you  both  should  have  somebody  to 
abuse,  and  I  shall  answer  the  •  purpose  as  well  as 
anybody  else.  'Tis  about  all  an  old  hag  like  me  is 
good  for.  Well,  if  you  are  going,  I  shall  go  with  you, 
and  deliver  you  safe  into  your  mother's  hands  :  and 
probably  there  '11  have  to  be  some  lying  done,  when  she 
asks  where  Philip  is ;  and  I  'm  a  better  hand  at  that  than 
you  are.  You  've  no  idea  what  experience  1  have  had  I" 

Here  the  old  lady  chuckled  rather  cynically,  and 
wrapping  her  caftan  around  her,  stalked  out  of  the 
room.  Marion,  left  to  herself,  quickly  went  about  her 
preparations,  singing  to  herself  at  intervals,  and  mov- 
ing with  a  lighter  step  and  heart  than  she  had  known 
for  many  days.  The  old  house  at  Hammersmith  I  It 
seemed  like  going  home  for  the  first  time,  since  the 
honeymoon.  It  was  there  that  her  first  happiness  had 
come  to  her ;  and  if  Heaven  ever  permitted  her  to  be 
happy  again,  it  ought  to  happen  there.  All  this  fever 
of  wealth  and  fashionable  society  was  as  a  dream  that 
is  past:  freshness  and  sanity  had  returned  with  the 
morning. 

Lady  Flanders,  with  the  promptness  of  an  old  cam- 
paigner, who  knows  how  to  concentrate  hours  into  min- 
utes when  there  is  need  for  it,  was  ready  almost  as  soon 
as  Marion,  and  the  two  immediately  set  forth  for  the 
Lancasters'  house  in  her  ladyship's  big  carriage,  with 
the  coachman  in  front  and  the  footman  behind  in  pig- 
tails and  silk  stockings.  They  arrived  just  as  Mrs. 
Lockhart  was  about  to  depart.  She  greeted  them  with 
her  usual  gentle  serenity. 

"My  dear  daughter,"  she  said,  embracing  Marion, 
"  your  trip  to  the  country  has  done  you  good.  She  has 
a  fine  color,  has  she  not,  Lady  Flanders  ?  though  I 
think  she  is  a  little  thin.  This  city  life  is  very  trying : 
I  used  to  find  it  so  before  I  married  your  dear  father. 
But  no  doubt  'tis  different  when  you  have  your  husband 


DUST.  879 

to  go  into  society  with  you.  A  happy  marriage  is  the 
best  health  preserver  in  the  world.  Has  Philip  come 
back  too  ?  Will  he  come  out  with  us  ?" 

"Your  son-in-law,  madam,"  said  Lady  Flanders,  be- 
fore Marion  could  command  her  voice  or  open  her 
mouth,  "is  detained,  I  believe,  but  very  probably  he 
may  join  you  before  you  return.  Madam,  that  gown 
suits  you  admirably ;  and  I  can  scarce  believe,  when  I 
look  at  you,  that  so  many  years  have  passed  since  you 
were  the  toast  of  Bath." 

Hereupon  the  lovely  Fanny  Pell  of  the  last  century 
flushed  with  innocent  pleasure,  and  the  color  showed 
through  the  cheeks  of  the  gentle  Avidow  of  Major  Lock- 
hart:  and  the  difficulty  about  Philip  was  evaded  for 
the  present.  After  a  little  more  conversation,  Mrs. 
Lockhart  proposed  that,  as  the  day  was  fine,  Lady 
Flanders  should  accompany  them  as  far  as  Hammer- 
smith, and  perhaps  lunch  with  them  there ;  and  in  the 
afternoon  she  might  drive  back  in  time  to  keep  her  en- 
gagement to  dine  at  Lord  Croftus'.  Marion  added  her 
entreaty  to  those  of  her  mother :  and  her  ladyship, 
doubtless  perceiving  that  her  presence  would  be  a  pro- 
tection for  Marion  against  the  guileless  inquisition  of 
Mrs.  Lockhart,  who  was  as  likely  to  prattle  about  Philip 
and  the  delights  of  a  happy  marriage  as  about  anything 
else,  consented  ;  and  the  whole  party  got  into  the  car- 
riage, and  rolled  away  on  gently-swaying  springs.  The 
brief  winter  sunshine  shone  along  the  streets,  throwing 
the  shadow  of  the  tall  vehicle  behind  them ;  and  the 
pedestrians  on  the  sidewalks  stepped  out  briskly,  for 
the  air  was  crisp  and  bright.  Christmas  was  not  far 
off,  and  its  jovial  influence  was  already  felt.  The  long 
year,  with  all  its  happiness  and  its  misery,  its  failure  and 
its  success,  was  drawing  to  a  close  ;  and  for  the  bulk  of 
mankind,  the  cheerfuller  side  of  life  seemed,  on  the 
whole,  to  have  come  uppermost.  Marion,  as  she  gazed 


380  DUST. 

out  of  the  window  of  the  carriage  (while  her  mother  and 
Lady  Flanders  chatted  about  the  London  of  forty  years 
ago),  meditated  over  all  which  this  year  had  brought 
her  of  good  and  evil :  and  tried  to  determine  with  her- 
self whether,  taking  the  good  and  the  evil  together,  she 
would  have  wished  this  year  omitted  from  her  life.  At 
first,  with  the  remembrance  of  recent  pain  and  suffer- 
ing still  fresh  within  her,  and  the  future  still  so  uncer- 
tain and  clouded,  she  thought  that  it  would  have  been 
better  for  her  if  she  had  died  that  day  that  she  saw 
Philip  and  Mr.  Grant  enter  the  gate  of  the  old  house  in 
Hammersmith,  and  knock  at  the  door.  But  when  she 
began  to  recall  more  in  detail  all  the  events  that  had 
happened,  she  thought  that,  for  so  much  happiness,  all 
the  pain  was  not  too  dear  a  price  to  pay.  There  was 
the  picture  in  her  memory  of  Philip  telling  them  how 
he  had  cared  for  Major  Lockhart,  on  the  field  of 
Waterloo :  his  voice  had  been  tremulous  as  he  told  it, 
and  his  eyes  had  met  hers  with  a  sympathy  so  manly 
and  so  honest  that  her  heart  went  out  to  meet  it.  Then 
had  ensued  that  period  when  she  withdrew  herself  from 
him,  as  it  were,  and  was  harsh  and  cold,  from  the  un- 
tamed maidenhood  that  had  divined  its  danger,  and 
blindly  sought  to  preserve  itself  at  any  cost.  But  oh ! 
how  sweet  it  had  been  to  feel,  day  by  day,  that  the 
struggle  was  in  vain  !  What  fear,  what  joy,  what  self- 
distrust,  what  hope,  what  secret  tears  I  And  then,  that 
summer  ride  to  Kichmond,  with  Philip  at  her  side ;  the 
banter,  the  laughter,  the  betraying  tones  and  looks,  the 
swelling  tenderness  that  drowned  resistance ;  and  at 
last,  the  touch  of  hands,  and  the  few  words  that  meant 
so  much!  Surely,  to  have  lived  through  such  a  day 
might  compensate  for  many  a  day  of  pain. 

Besides,  the  season  of  outward  coldness  and  sus- 
pended confidence  that  had  followed  this,  had  been 
founded  on  nothing  real,  and  had  vanished  at  the  first 


DUST.  881 

touch  of  reality.  On  that  black  night  when  she  and 
Philip  groped  their  way  through  midnight  ways  to 
avert,  if  it  might  be,  the  peril  so  mysteriously  fore- 
shadowed. Their  spirits  touched  and  recognized  each 
other,  and  the  terror  of  the  crisis  had  only  made  the  re- 
cognition more  deep  and  firm.  On  that  tragic  night, 
love  had  avouched  himself  greater  than  all  tragedy  and 
sorrow  ;  more  true  than  they,  and,  unlike  them,  eter- 
nal. The  flower  of  this  love  had  she  and  Philip  plucked, 
and  had  breathed  its  immortal  fragrance.  So  much  the 
year  had  brought  her. 

But  then  Marion  fell  to  thinking  about  the  months 
that  had  since  elapsed,  and  the  significance  of  their 
story.  And  the  more  she  meditated,  the  more  clearly 
did  it  appear  to  her  that  she,  and  not  Philip,  had  been 
to  blame.  For  why  had  she  refused  the  legacy  ?  From 
jealousy  of  Philip.  But  was  her  jealousy  just  ?  It  had 
been  a  fancy  merely,  a  vague  suspicion,  founded  upon 
hints  half  understood  and  whimsically  exaggerated.  A 
woman  who  is  loved  has  no  right  to  say,  "Because  an- 
other woman  is  more  beautiful  or  brilliant  than  I,  there- 
fore my  husband  will  care  more  for  her  than  he  does  for 
me."  For  love  is  the  divine  Philosopher's  Stone,  which 
transfigures  that  which  it  touches ;  and,  for  the  lover, 
there  is  a  beauty  in  his  mistress  before  which  the  splen- 
dor of  Helen  of  Troy  or  the  Egyptian  Cleopatra  seem 
but  as  dust.  And  let  her  beware  lest  she  so  far  vulgarize 
the  dignity  of  love  as  to  make  it  one  with  her  own  esti- 
mate of  herself.  As  justly  might  the  Song  that  Solomon 
sang  rate  its  worth  at  that  of  the  material  forms  and 
substances  whereby  it  was  conveyed  from  his  mind  to 
ours.  As  regarded  Philip,  morevei*,  how  could  he,  being 
innocent  of  that  which  she  suspected,  have  done  other- 
wise than  he  did  ?  For  him  to  have  yielded,  would 
have  been  to  acknowledge  himself  vulnerable.  And 
again,  what  justification  could  she  plead  for  the  dissi- 


382  DUST. 

pated  and  reckless  life  she  had  led  since  the  difference  of 
opinion  between  Philip  and  herself?  None,  none  1  It 
had  been  the  ungenerous  revenge  which,  to  requite  open 
defeat,  goes  about  to  rob  the  victor  of  the  comfort  of 
his  victory.  Still  less  defensible  was  this  last  act  of 
hers,  to  which  the  present  disastrous  state  of  things  was 
immediately  due.  To  gain  an  end  which  she  had  osten- 
sibly given  up,  she  had  put  herself  in  a  predicament 
fairly  open  to  the  worst  interpretation ;  and  then,  when 
her  husband  had  demanded  the  explanation  which  was 
his  right,  she  had  defiantly  refused  to  give  it.  When  a 
woman  like  Marion  begins  to  be  repentant  and  forgiv- 
ing, she  allows  herself  no  limits ;  and  by  the  time  the 
carriage  had  reached  Hammersmith,  Marion  was  dis- 
posed to  consider  herself  the  most  reckless  and  culpable 
of  wives,  and  Philip  the  most  injured  and  long-suffering 
of  husbands.  But  where,  alas  !  was  Philip,  that  she 
might  tell  him  so  ? 

They  turned  down  the  well-remembered  little  side 
street,  and  in  another  minute  the  carriage  had  drawn 
up  before  the  iron  gate,  to  which,  so  long  ago  and  yet  so 
recently,  Marion  had  fastened  the  card  with  "  To  Let " 
written  on  it,  which  had  been  the  means  of  bringing  her 
and  Philip  together.  The  footman  jumped  down,  opened 
the  carriage  door,  and  let  down  the  steps ;  he  assisted 
Mrs.  Lockhart  to  alight,  and  gave  her  his  arm  up  the 
walk.  Marion  followed  with  Lady  Flanders.  The  old 
house  looked  forlorn,  though  a  care-taker  had  been  left 
in  charge  of  it ;  the  windows  were  dull  and  bare ;  the 
cedar  of  Lebanon  had  scattered  its  dry  needles  over  the 
path  and  grass-plot :  the  knocker  was  tarnished,  the  foot- 
scraper  red  with  dust.  The  footman  lifted  the  knocker 
to  rap ;  but  before  the  stroke  sounded,  the  door  was 
opened  from  within. 

Marion  heard  her  mother  give  a  little  exclamation  of 
surprise  and  pleasure,  and  then  say  something,  in  words 


DUST  383 

she  did  not  distinguish.  She  raised  her  eyes  languidly : 
but  the  broad  back  of  the  liveried  footman  intercepted 
her  view.  Lady  Flanders,  however,  whose  vision  was 
not  thus  obstructed,  gave  a  start,  and  cried  out,  "  Why, 
d him,  there  he  is  I" 

The  footman's  back  disappeared,  and  in  its  place  Ma- 
rion's gaze  absorbed  the  vision  of  a  tall  dark  figure,  a 
white  face,  black,  exploring  eyes,  disheveled  hair, — all 
suddenly  kindled  up  and  vivified  by  a  flash  of  poignant 
delight.  She  remained  standing  erect  on  the  lower  step, 
and,  without  removing  her  wide,  breathless  gaze,  she 
slowly  raised  her  hands,  and  clasped  them  together 
against  her  heart. 

"Mr.  Lancaster,"  said  Lady  Flanders,  in  a  high, 
sharp  tone,  "help  your  wife  into  the  house,  can't  you! 
she  's  feeling  faint.  You  ought  to  be  more  careful  how 
you  play  off  your  surprises  on  a  woman  in  her  condition. 
Why  didn't  you  let  us  know  you  were  going  to  be  here  ? 
Come,  Mrs.  Lockhart,"  she  added,  seizing  the  latter  by 
the  arm  and  drawing  her  in-doors,  "  let  us  get  up  stairs 
and  take  off  our  bonnets.  That 's  the  way  with  these 
young  married  people  !  They  can't  meet  after  a  separa- 
tion of  twelve  hours  without  going  into  such  heroics 
and  ecstacies  as  would  make  one  think  they  had  been 
dead  and  returned  to  life  again,  at  least !  Leave  'em  to 
themselves,  and  perhaps  in  half  an  hour  they  '11  be  able 
to  recognize  our  existence.'' 

In  this  way  the  wise  old  woman  of  the  world,  who 
had  comprehended  the  situation  at  a  glance,  at  once 
parried  whatever  inconvenient  inquiries  Mrs.  Lockhart 
might  have  made,  and  afforded  an  opportunity  to  Philip 
and  Marion  to  enjoy  their  explanation  and  reconciliation 
in  private,  away  from  the  inspection  of  footmen  and 
other  ignorant  and  inquisitive  persons.  When  she  got 
up  stairs,  and  before  she  removed  her  bonnet,  she  took 
out  a  large  silk  pocket-handkerchief,  and  blew  her  nose ; 


384  DUST. 

and  for  some  time  made  no  articulate  rejoinder  to  the 
serene  little  observations  which  Mrs.  Lockhart  kept 
offering. 

"How  did  you  happen  to  be  here,  my  dearest?"  said 
Marion,  in  the  course  of  the  interview.  "Did  you  know 
we  were  coming  ?" 

';I  have  been  here  for  several  days,  I  believe,"  an- 
swered Philip:  "I  hardly  know  how  long,  or  when  the 
days  begun  or  ended.  I  did  not  know  where  to  look  for 
you,  darling,  and  it  seemed  most  natural  to  come  here, 
where  we  loved  each  other  first." 

"  Oh.  my  Philip  I  and  were  you  thinking  I  was  wicked 
all  that  time  ?" 

"No,  thank  God  !  I  don't  think  I  ever  seriously  be- 
lieved that.  But  one  day,  before  I  came  here,  I  saw 
Tom  Moore  ;  he  came  up  to  me,  and  said  he  wanted  to 
say  something  to  me  in  private.  So  we  walked  across 
the  park,  and  pretty  soon  I  found  that  he  was  talking 
about  you.  From  that  moment  I  remember  every  word 
he  uttered.  'Mr.  Lancaster,'  he  said,  'you'll  do  me 
the  credit  to  believe  that  I  'm  a  man  of  honor  and  a 
gentleman,  and  the  good  name  of  a  lady  is  sacred  to  me. 
I  have  admired  and  reverenced  Mrs.  Lancaster  since 
first  I  had  the  honor  to  be  in  her  presence ;  and  though, 
to  be  sure,  'twas  mighty  small  notice  she  ever  took  of 
me,  my  nature  is  not  so  petty  that  a  slight  to  my  vanity 
can  obscure  my  judgment  or  dim  my  perception.'  Then 
he  went  on  to  tell  me  all  about  meeting  you  at  Vaux- 
hall,  and  what  a  state  of  excitement  you  were  in,  and 
how  he  hurried  you  out  of  sight,  and  put  you  into  a  car- 
riage, and  then  went  and  got  Sir  Francis ;  and  how  you 
all  drove  to  the  inn  in  Pimlico,  and  afterwards  how  he 
saw  you  safe  home  with  your  maid.  Then  he  said  that 
tortures  would  never  have  unsealed  his  lips  on  the  sub- 
ject :  but  he  had  learned  that,  in  some  way,  a  rumor 


DUST.  385 

had  got  abroad  that  you  were  seen  there.  Whereupon 
he  had  deemed  it  due  to  his  honor  as  a  gentleman,  as 
well  as  to  his  consciousness  of  integrity  and  innocence, 
to  come  to  me  at  once,  in  a  frank  and  manly  way,  and 
give  me  to  know  at  first  hand  all  there  was  to  be  known 
of  the  matter.  It  was  very  eloquent  and  chivalrous," 
added  Philip,  "and  at  any  other  time  I  might  have 
laughed :  as  it  was,  I  just  thanked  him,  and  we  bowed 
to  each  other  and  parted  ;  aud  I  came  here." 

"It  seems  like  coming  up  out  of  the  grave,"  said 
Marion,  musingly.  "And  now,  my  poor  Philip,  after 
all  our  quarreling  and  trouble,  what  do  you  think  has 
happened  ?  The  Marquise  is  going  to  sue  for  your 
money ;  and  Lady  Flanders  says  she  's  afraid  the  law 
may  give  it  to  her." 

"Will  the  Marquise  do  that?"  said  Philip,  arching 
his  eyebrows. 

"SoMerton  Fillmore  says:  and  he  is  to  conduct  her 
case." 

"  Well,"  said  Philip,  beginning  to  smile,  "  she  could 
not  have  done  anything  that  pleases  me  better ;  for  I 
have  gained  much  wisdom  since  I  saw  you  last,  and  am 
as  anxious  to  be  rid  of  that  burden  as  ever  you  were.  So, 
if  you  agree,  my  darling,  we  '11  give  her  the  twenty  thou- 
sand pounds,  without  putting  her  to  the  trouble  to  sue 
for  it :  for  there 's  only  one  kind  of  wealth  worth 
having,  and  that  is  what  I  have  been  enjoying  ever 
since  I  caught  sight  of  you  on  the  doorsteps." 

"But,  Philip,  you  know  we  have  spent  ever  so  much 
money  on  that  miserable  house  in  town.  What  are  we 
to  do  about  that  ?  for  the  money  from  '  Iduna '  will  not 
be  enough  to  pay  it." 

"Why,  that  is  all  right,  too,"  said  Philip,  laughing: 
"  for,  though  I  had  forgotten  it  till  this  moment,  Lord 
Seabridge,  who  is  not  expected  to  live  more  than  a  week, 
said  when  I  saw  him  the  other  day  that  he  put  five 


886  DUST. 

thousand  pounds  in  his  will  for  me, '  just  to  buy  my  wife 
a  present.'  We  can  pay  our  debts  with  that,  and  still 
have  a  few  hundreds  left  to  begin  life  again  in  this  old 
house."  He  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  added, 
looking  down  at  her,  "You  won't  object  to  my  receiv- 
ing that  legacy,  will  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  Philip  1"  said  Marion,  with  a  long  sigh,  hiding 
her  face  on  his  shoulder;  "I  wish  ...  I  think  .  .  . 
I  hear  my  mother  and  Lady  Flanders  coming  down 
stairs  I" 


CHAPTER  XXXVH. 

WHEN  the  Marquise  Desmoines  received  from  Fill- 
more  a  letter .  announcing  that  the  defendants  in  the 
case  of  Desmoines  vs.  Lancaster  declined  to  defend,  she 
uttered  a  sharp  cry,  and  dropped  the  letter  as  if  it  had 
been  poisonous.  That  strange  sense  of  justice — of  what 
is  fairly  due  to  one  as  a  human  being — which  is  perhaps 
the  last  thing  to  die  out  of  even  the  least  deserving  of 
God's  creatures,  told  her  heart  that  she  had  been  out- 
raged. All  things  had  slipped  away  from  her.  Despite 
all  her  powers,  and  her  desperate  yearning  to  exercise 
them,  she  was  powerless.  There  could  scarcely  be,  for 
her,  a  keener  suffering.  With  some  natures,  the  very 
intensity  of  anguish  is  its  own  partial  antidote;  the 
faculties  are  so  far  stunned  as  to  be  unable,  for  a  time, 
to  gauge  the  poignancy  of  the  disaster.  But  Perdita's 
clear  and  vigorous  intellect  would  not  permit  her  such 
an  escape.  She  immediately  saw  her  position  in  all  its 
bearings  and  prospects.  Her  mind  shed  a  pitiless  light 
upon  every  aspect  of  her  defeat  and  humiliation.  Some- 
thing vital  within  her  seemed  to  gasp  and  die. 

After  a  long,  breathless  pause,  she  took  up  the  letter 
again,  and  read  it  to  the  end.  It  contained  a  request 
on  the  part  of  the  writer  to  be  allowed  to  call  on  her  at 
a  certain  hour  that  evening.  It  was  not  difficult  to  see 
what  that  meant.  She  had  made  the  surrender  of  her- 
self to  Fillmore  contingent  upon  his  recovery  of  the 
legacy :  and  he  was  coming  to  claim  the  fulfillment  of 
her  promise.  She  would  be  called  on  to  play  the  part 
of  a  complaisant  fiancee.  At  this  picture,  Perdita 
8S7 


888  DUST. 

laughed;  and  then,  setting  her  teeth  with  rage,  tore 
the  paper  into  fragments.  Such  rage  is  deadly.  Had 
Fillmore  been  present,  his  fiancee  would  have  attempted 
his  life.  And  yet  it  was  not  he  that  could  enrage  her : 
nothing  that  he  could  have  done  could  have  affected  one 
pulsation  of  her  heart.  She  had  passed  into  a  region 
of  emotion  almost  infinitely  more  intense  than  any  with 
which  he  could  be  connected.  But,  as  sometimes  a 
woman  will  kiss  a  child  or  a  dog,  thinking  "this  kiss  is 
for  my  lover  I"  so  might  Perdita  have  driven  a  dagger 
to  Fillmore's  heart,  and  said,  "  Be  Philip  and  die  !" 

She  looked  at  her  hands:  how  white  and  fine  they 
were, — how  beautifully  formed  !  She  rose  and  walked 
to  and  fro  in  the  room ;  every  movement  was  grace  and 
elasticity, — the  harmonious  play  of  parts  exquisitely 
fashioned  and  proportioned.  She  paused  before  the  look- 
ing-glass, and  contemplated  the  form  and  features  imaged 
there.  She  drew  out  her  comb,  and  shook  down  on 
her  shoulders  a  soft  depth  of  bright-hued  hair.  She 
loosened  the  front  of  her  dress,  and  exposed  a  bosom 
white  as  milk  and  curved  like  the  bowl  of  Ganymede, 
save  for  the  slight  indentation  of  a  scar,  on  the  right 
breast.  She  gazed  into  the  sparkling  reflection  of  her 
eyes,  as  if  some  mystery  were  hidden  there.  "  I  have 
seen  no  woman  more  beautiful  than  you,"  she  said 
aloud.  "  What  is  the  use  of  beauty  ?  "Why  was  I  born  ?" 

She  returned  to  her  chair,  and  threw  herself  in  it  side- 
wise,  as  a  child  might  do,  with  her  cheek  resting  against 
the  back,  one  knee  drawn  up,  her  hands  folded,  her  eye- 
lids closed.  As  she  lay  thus  she  looked  like  a  type  of 
lovely  and  innocent  weariness.  "  Why  was  I  born  ?" 
she  repeated  in  a  whisper.  Her  thoughts  strayed  back 
along  the  vista  of  her  seven  and  twenty  years :  from  the 
distance  she  saw  the  figure  of  a  little  girl,  with  bright 
hair  and  laughing  eyes,  come  tripping  onwards,  inquisi- 
tive, observant,  quick-witted,  stout-hearted  ;  fond  of  her 


DUST.  889 

own  way,  and  ready  to  take  her  own  part ;  but  good- 
humored  always  and  tolerant  of  others.  Onward  comes 
the  child,  growing  taller  as  it  advances,  beginning  now 
to  realize  its  loneliness  in  the  world,  sometimes  medita- 
ting gravely  thereon,  but  never  losing  courage  ;  begin- 
ning also  to  realize  its  own  superior  gifts,  and  exercising 
them  experimentally,  for  the  pleasure  of  the  use,  and 
not  always  with  too  much  heed  for  the  effect  on  others. 
Still  forward  she  comes,  with  a  step  somewhat  less  frolic- 
some, with  eyes  that  look  more  penetratingly  ...  a 
mind  that  harbors  ambitious  thoughts ;  a  face  that  can 
conceal  as  well  as  express ;  a  confidence  in  herself  and 
in  her  fortune :  worldly  wisdom  already,  at  seventeen 
years.  That  great,  broad  book  of  the  world — of  human 
life  and  character — with  its  profundity,  its  insanity,  its 
pathos,  its  absurdity,  its  veins  of  good,  its  masses  of  evil, 
— the  girl  Perdita  has  studied  it  all,  and  no  mother 
no  loving  friend,  has  been  beside  her,  to  direct  her 
studies,  to  interpret  her  discoveries,  to  correct  her 
errors.  .  .  .  Who  is  this  antique  figure  who  now 
walks  beside  her,  to  whose  formal  and  laborious  gait  she 
endeavors  to  accommodate  her  own :  this  gray-haired 
man  of  more  than  thrice  her  age,  with  his  habits,  his 
prejudices,  his  limitations,  his  ailments  ?  Is  this  her 
husband  ? — the  lord  and  master  of  that  brilliant,  buoy- 
ant creature  ?  Ah,  Perdita,  are  you  his  wife  ?  Do  you 
love  him,  honor  him,  obey  him  ?  Are  he  and  his  posses- 
sions the  final  embodiment  and  satisfaction  of  your  ambi- 
tious dreams  ?  Can  you  do  without  love — you,  who  have 
never  tried  what  love  is  ?  It  is  ill  being  prudent  before 
experience,  and  wise  before  instruction.  Why  are  your 
lips  so  persuasive,  your  eyes  so  winning,  your  touch  so 
caressing  ?— Why  are  you  so  lovely,  Perdita?  .  .  . 
Why  were  you  born  ? 

But  still  the  young  wife  passes  onward,  with  little  mis- 
giving and  less  regret.    There  is  a  great  deal  of  splendor 


890  DUST. 

and  luxury  around  her,  and  she  easily  makes  herself 
their  nucleus  and  culmination.  Famous  men  pay  court 
to  her;  wise  men  listen  to  her  conversation;  women 
criticise  and  try  to  imitate  her.  In  the  brilliant  society 
of  her  day  and  place  she  is  a  figure  and  a  topic.  Musi- 
cians dedicate  their  compositions  to  her ;  poets  immor- 
talize her  in  their  rhymes  of  a  season.  She  is  the 
heroine  of  a  hundred  anecdotes,  but  of  not  a  single  ro- 
mance: very  intrepid  and  adventurous,  but  with  the 
coldness  as  well  as  the  sparkle  of  ice.  "  Can't  make  her 
out,"  said  Lord  Fitz  Hardinge,  who  was  said  to  have 
come  to  Paris  especially  to  be  presented  to  her.  "  Don't 
see  how  she  keeps  it  up — a  woman  of  her  complexion, 
too.  Egad  I  I  have  it  I  The  Marquis  must  be  Cupid  in 
disguise  1"  This  mot  was  repeated  until  it  reached  Per- 
dita's  ears.  "A  woman's  complexion  changes  with  her 
company,"  she  said;  "and  as  to  the  Marquis,  my  hus- 
band, it  is  better  to  be  a  disguised  Cupid  than  a  make- 
believe  one."  As  his  Lordship's  excesses  had  somewhat 
worn  upon  his  constitution,  this  shaft  struck  deep  and 
resisted  all  efforts  to  extract  it.  People  seldom  attacked 
the  Marquise  Desmoines  more  than  once. 

Meanwhile,  Perdita  is  still  sitting  in  the  same  posi- 
tion in  her  chair,  one  knee  drawn  up,  her  hands  clasped 
and  her  eyelids  closed.  What  vision  does  she  behold 
now  ?  A  handsome  room,  with  polished  floor,  the  walls 
bright  with  pictured  panels  bordered  with  gold ;  can- 
dles set  in  burnished  sconces :  the  door  opens  and  her 
husband  enters,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  tall  young  man. 
The  stranger  is  plainly  dressed,  but  his  form  and  bear- 
ing are  noble  :  and  his  face,  relieved  by  the  black  hair 
around  it,  prints  itself  on  her  mind,  never  to  be  forgot- 
ten— so  intense  and  vivid  does  it  seem  with  life  and 
meaning,  yet  so  composed  and  clear.  A  new  feeling, 
strange  and  sweet,  creeps  in  gentle  undulations  along 
Perdita's  nerves,  and  settles  in  her  heart.  He  sits 


DUST.  891 

beside  her,  and  they  converse,  easily  and  with  mutual 
pleasure  and  comprehension ;  his  voice,  grave  and  ge- 
nial, makes  music  in  her  ears ;  his  dark  direct  glance 
meets  hers — absorbs  and  mingles  with  it.  She  draws 
fuller  breath ;  this  atmosphere,  in  which  she  has  never 
lived  before,  gives  her  for  the  first  time  real  life :  she 
understands  what  she  is,  and  what  is  possible  for  her. 
The  Enchanted  Prince  has  awakened  the  Sleeping  Beauty. 

The  days  that  follow  are  like  no  other  days,  before  or 
since.  He  is  a  poet,  but  what  poetry  ever  equaled 
their  companionship  ?  The  world,  with  its  follies,  its 
emptiness,  its  formulas,  its  delusions,  seems  to  stand 
aside  to  let  them  pass.  .  .  .  One  day  they  have  ridden 
out  with  a  cavalcade,  bound  on  an  expedition  of  pleas- 
ure to  some  distant  chateau.  Riding  onward,  she  and 
he,  and  drawn  insensibly  together,  they  pass  fleetly 
along  woodland  paths,  through  dancing  shade  and  sun- 
light, leaving  the  others  behind,  or  in  advance,  perhaps  ; 
they  have  little  thought  but  of  each  other.  Light  is 
Perdita's  heart ;  no  shadow  has  darkened  it  since  that 
first  meeting.  The  passing  moments  have  filled  the  ca- 
pacity of  sensation,  leaving  no  room  for  reflection  or 
forecast ;  she  has  never  even  said  to  herself,  "  This  is 
friendship,"  or  "This  is  love;"  enough  that  it  is  de- 
light, growth,  harmony,  beauty  :  that  it  lets  her  know 
how  sweet  it  is  to  be  a  woman.  At  last,  as  they  ride 
on,  the  pinnacles  of  the  chateau  taper  upward  above  the 
trees ;  anon,  before  them  opens  a  sweep  of  lawn,  which 
they  cross,  and  alight  at  the  broad  steps  that  lead  up  to 
the  door.  They  are  the  first  to  arrive  ;  for  half  an 
hour,  perhaps,  they  will  have  the  house  to  themselves, 
save  for  the  servants  who  are  preparing  the  collation 
below-stairs. 

They  stroll  through  the  airy  rooms,  with  merry  and 
gentle  talk,  until  at  length  they  enter  a  hall  where, 
over  the  chimney-piece,  is  suspended  a  pair  of  antique 


393  DUST. 

rapiers.  Perdita  takes  down  one  of  these,  and  putting 
herself  in  posture  of  offense,  bids  her  companion  take 
the  other  and  defend  himself.  He  complies,  and,  for  a 
few  moments,  laughingly  parries  and  pretends  to  return 
her  thrusts.  All  at  once,  as  she  presses  him,  his  foot 
slips  on  the  polished  floor,  and  ere  he  can  recover  him- 
self he  feels  his  point  touch  her  breast.  .  .  . 

At  this  point  of  the  vision,  Perdita  slightly  changes 
her  position  in  her  chair,  and  a  flush  reddens  her  cheek. 
She  breathes  unevenly  and  her  lips  move.  Ah,  that 
summer  noon,  so  distant  now,  when  she  found  herself 
resting  in  his  arms,  her  riding-habit  stained  with  red 
blood — his  face,  his  voice,  so  near,  so  tender :  his  touch 
so  gentle!  She  had  looked  into  his  eyes,  and  laughed 
softly,  in  mere  joy.  Blessed  sword !  that  by  drawing 
her  blood  had  revealed  their  hearts  to  each  other.  But 
ah !  why  was  the  wound  not  mortal  ?  Was  not  the 
wound  that  it  symbolized  so?  Why  had  she  not  died 
during  those  few  minutes — too  few — that  had  gone  by 
before  the  sound  of  voices  and  horses'  hoofs  announced 
the  arrival  of  the  party  ?  Had  anything  that  had  hap- 
pened since  been  worth  the  trouble  of  living  through  it? 
True,  she  had  hoped ;  but  hope  is  but  the  mask  of  des- 
pair, sooner  or  later  to  be  cast  aside.  Before  her  wound 
was  healed,  the  love  which  it  had  discovered  had  with- 
drawn itself,  never  to  return.  There  had  been  some 
talk  about  honor,  obligation,  duty,  prudence — to  which 
she  had  assented  with  her  lips,  while  all  the  rest  of  her 
rebelled  ;  for  it  had  not  been  sin  that  she  contemplated, 
but  only  to  let  her  heart  love  and  be  loved.  Then,  a 
farewell :  and  afterward  a  dreary  blankness,  amidst 
which  she  moved  hardened,  witty,  cynical,  unrecon- 
ciled, until  these  latter  days,  which  were  bitterer  and 
more  disastrous  than  the  first.  Why  was  she  born  ? 

Enough  of  visions  I  Perdita  rose  to  her  feet,  and 
gazed  about  her.  Luxury  and  beauty  surrounded  her, 


DUST.  893 

as  they  had  always  done  ;  but  the  darkness  and  wilder- 
ness that  were  within  her  turned  all  to  ugliness  and 
mockery.  There  was  a  terrible  simplicity  in  her  situa- 
tion ;  a  fatal  lack  of  resources  and  alternatives.  She 
walked  across  the  room :  something  seemed  to  tread  be- 
hind her;  she  turned  quickly,  but  nothing  was  there. 
The  sense  of  being  dogged  —  pursued — still  remained 
however.  What  was  it? — fate?  She  smiled;  then 
shivered  nervously,  and  stood  twisting  her  handkerchief 
between  her  fingers.  Fate  .  .  .  The  idea  fascinated 
her.  Was  her  fate  so  near  ?  and  what  was  it  like  ?  Let 
it  appear  and  declare  itself!  After  a  while  she  began 
to  walk  again,  but  now  meditating  profoundly.  Once 
she  stopped  before  the  fire,  and  gazed  fixedly  at  the 
burning  coals :  then  moved  away  once  more,  not  pacing 
up  and  down,  but  wandering  irregularly  about  the 
room,  knotting  and  untying  her  handkerchief;  some- 
times, in  her  pre-occupation,  almost  stumbling  against 
a  chair  or  table.  Meanwhile,  her  usually  varying  ex- 
pression had  assumed  a  certain  fixedness,  and  there  was 
a  vertical  wrinkle  between  her  brows,  which  seemed  not 
to  be  caused  by  drawing  her  brows  together,  but  to  have 
marked  itself  there  by  some  other  means. 

At  last  she  stopped,  passing  her  hands  across  her  eyes 
and  over  her  hair,  which  she  seemed  surprised  to  find 
hanging  about  her  shoulders.  She  twisted  it  up  into 
place  again,  adjusted  her  dress,  and  after  pausing  a 
moment  as  if  to  recover  the  thread  of  her  thoughts, 
went  to  a  cabinet  at  the  side  of  the  room,  and  looked 
attentively  at  the  objects  which  it  contained.  They 
were  mostly  curiosities  and  works  of  art,  such  as  a 
carved  ivory  cup,  a  box  of  Indian  enamel,  a  vase  of 
Venetian  glass,  figures  in  Dresden  porcelain,  a  Chinese 
idol  of  silver,  an  antique  locket  of  wrought  gold.  From 
among  these  objects  Perdita  selected  a  small,  quaintly- 
fashioned  lamp  of  pure  crystal ;  it  was  of  Persian  manu- 


894  DUST. 

facture,  and  bore  some  figures  or  letters  of  enigmatic 
purport,  perhaps  having  reference  to  the  tenets  of  the 
ancient  fire-worshippers.  She  examined  this  lamp  cu- 
riously, wiping  away  the  dust  with  her  handkerchief, 
and  assuring  herself  that  it  contained  no  crack  or  im- 
perfection. Finally  she  placed  it  upon  the  table  near 
the  fire ;  and  having  rung  the  bell,  bade  the  servant 
summon  Madame  Cabot. 

"Madame,"  said  the  Marquise,  when  the  old  lady  ap- 
peared, "I  am  expecting  some  one  to  call  here  this 
evening, — Monsieur  Fillrnore." 

"Yes,  Madame  la  Marquise." 

"  I  wish  you  to  lay  out  the  black  satin  gown,  and 
the  diamonds, — you  understand?" 

"  Yes,  Madame  la  Marquise." 

"lam  going  out  now,— alone:  I  shall  not  need  your 
company.  If  any  one  calls  in  the  meantime,  say  I 
shall  not  return  until  to-morrow.  At  no  time  to-day  is 
any  one  to  be  admitted  except  Monsienr  Fillmore :  he 
will  arrive  about  seven  o'clock.  Will  you  attend  to  this?" 

"  Certainly,  Madame  la  Marquise.  "Will  Madame  dine 
at  the  usual  hour  ?" 

"No  ;  you  will  dine  by  yourself  to-day.     That  is  all." 

"  A.U  revoir,  Madame  la  Marquise. " 

The  old  lady  courtesyed  and  went  out.  Perdita  sat 
down  at  her  desk  and  wrote  several  letters,  which  she 
locked  up  in  a  drawer.  Her  dejection  seemed  to  have 
been  lightened :  her  demeanor  was  grave,  but  not  op- 
pressed or  unnatural.  Occasionally  she  would  fall  into 
revery  for  a  few  minutes,  but  the  abstraction  was  not 
painful,  and  was  easily  cast  aside.  In  the  course  of  an 
hour  or  so  she  closed  her  desk,  and  going  to  her  room, 
put  on  a  dark  pelisse  and  veiled  bonnet,  and  went  out. 
The  sky  was  overcast,  and  the  air  cold  ;  but  there  was 
neither  rain  nor  wind.  The  streets  were  full  of  people, 
and  the  shops  were  doing  a  thriving  trade  in  Christmas 


DUST.  395 

goods.  Perdita  mingled  with  the  crowd,  and  seemed  to 
take  pleasure  in  observing  them :  in  gazing  into  the  shop 
windows,  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  them :  in  listening  to 
the  confused  noise  of  voices,  tramping  feet,  and  rat- 
tling wheels.  On  the  Strand  she  happened  to  notice  four 
ragged  children  flattening  their  noses  against  the  glass 
of  a  candy-shop.  "I  choose  this,"  said  one  little  girl. 
"Oh  I  I  choose  this  1"  said  another,  in  the  pride  of  su- 
perior discernment.  "  Don't  yer  wish  yer  may  git  it  ?" 
remarked  a  boy,  the  eldest  of  the  party,  with  gloomy 
cynicism.  "Come  in  here,  youngsters,"  said  Perdita; 
"  you  shall  have  all  the  candy  you  want  I"  With  the 
matter-of-course  acceptance  of  miracles  characteristic  of 
children,  they  followed  her  into  the  shop,  and  presently 
came  forth  again  with  candy  enough  to  last  them  for  a 
week.  None  of  them  thanked  her,  any  more  than  we 
thank  the  sun  for  shining  through  a  break  in  the  clouds 
— the  supposition  being  that  the  sun  is  made  for  that 
purpose.  But  Perdita  was  not  in  need  of  gratitude. 
She  wanted  to  feel  the  actual  contact  of  human  crea- 
tures for  a  few  hours,  and  that  was  all.  Kesuming  her 
walk,  she  passed  through  St.  Paul's  churchyard,  and 
along  Cheapside,  where  she  entered  a  shop  and  made 
one  or  two  purchases  on  her  own  account.  Thence  she 
turned  in  a  southerly  direction,  and  presently  came  in 
sight  of  London  Bridge.  It  was  a  quaint,  narrow,  high- 
backed  structure,  with  jutting  piers,  affording  spaces  for 
venders  of  apples  and  other  cheap  merchandise  to  set  up 
their  little  stalls.  The  bridge  was  roaring  with  vehicles 
and  crowded  with  foot-passengers  ;  there  was  no  noisier 
or  more  populous  place  in  London.  There  was  a  high 
balustrade  on  each  side ;  but  by  stepping  upon  one  of 
the  semicircular  stone  seats  over  the  piers,  it  was  pos- 
sible to  look  over  at  the  broad  stream  beneath.  Perdita 
did  this,  and  remained  for  a  long  time,  absorbed  by  the 
spectacle.  The  brown  river,  rushing  at  the  arches  of 


396  DUST. 

the  bridge,  fell  through  them  in  boiling  cataracts,  with 
a  sound  that  was  audible  over  the  tumult  of  the  vehi- 
cles and  the  foot-passengers  above.  On  either  bank,  the 
wharves  were  thronged  with  shipping — straight  masts 
and  cobweb  cordage,  dense  as  primeval  forests.  Black 
chimneys  belched  forth  blacker  smoke,  which  trailed  and 
brooded  over  the  city :  huge,  ugly  buildings  of  stone  or 
brick  looked  down  into  the  dark  water.  Millions  of 
human  beings  had  done  all  this :  millions  of  human  be- 
ings lived  and  moved  here,  labored  and  hungered,  fought 
and  conquered,  struggled  and  succumbed,  were  born 
and  died.  Here  was  the  centre  and  concentration 
of  the  human  race,  the  culmination  of  the  history  of 
five  thousand  years  ;  and  what  a  gloomy,  dirty,  toiling, 
roaring,  sordid  Babel  it  was !  And  yet,  what  a  strong 
charm  and  attraction !  We  battle  and  shout  and  hope 
in  the  face  of  death ;  we  know  that  our  hopes  are  vain 
and  that  death  is  sure ;  we  know  that  life  is  weariness 
and  that  death  is  rest ;  we  bury  our  parents  and  know 
that  our  children  shall  bury  us  ;  and  still  generation 
succeeds  generation — appears  and  disappears — and  each 
maintains  the  turmoil  with  as  much  energy  and  earnest- 
ness as  if  to  it  alone  belonged  not  the  present  only,  but 
likewise  the  future  and  the  past.  Earthly  life,  the  old- 
est of  all  deceivers,  the  mightiest  of  all  hypocrites,  ex- 
posed and  condemned  at  each  passing  moment  of 
recorded  time — by  what  spell  does  it  still  retain  its 
mastery  over  us  ?  Does  it  inspire  the  wish  to  be 
cheated  that  it  gratifies  ?  or  is  there  something  behind 
— within  it — some  reality  whereof  it  is  but  the  symbol, 
which  leads  us  onward  to  another  goal  than  that  we 
aimed  at, — a  goal  which,  were  it  revealed  to  us,  we 
never  should  attain  ? 

Chilled  by  long  contact  with  the  stone  parapet,  Per- 
dita  stepped  down  from  her  perch,  and  returned  along 
the  bridge.  In  one  of  the  narrow  streets  leading  toward 


DUST.  397 

Cheapside,  she  noticed  a  small  inn  or  ordinary,  where  a 
card  nailed  to  the  door-post  announced  that  a  dinner  was 
to  be  had  inside  at  a  cheap  rate.  Perdita  entered ;  the 
place  was  low  and  dark,  and  was  tolerably  full  of  custom- 
ers, most  of  whom  were  seated  at  opposite  sides  of  the 
little  oblong  tables  projecting  at  right  angles  from  the 
walls.  A  man,  seeing  Perdita  stand  there,  made  room 
for  her  beside  him.  He  wore  a  dirty  fur  cap  and  a  lop- 
coat  of  coarse  cloth  ;  had  a  bold,  not  unhandsome  face, 
and  powerful  but  by  no  means  clean  hands.  A  plate  full 
of  some  sort  of  food  was  put  before  Perdita,  and  she 
began  to  eat.  The  man  who  had  nearly  finished  his 
dinner,  now  called  for  a  pot  of  ale  ;  and  having  glanced 
at  Perdita  once  or  twice,  he  addressed  her : 

"Say,  my  dear,  you're  a  good-looking  gal,  do  you 
know  that  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Perdita,  "other  men  have  told  me  so." 

"  What 's  your  name  ?" 

"Perdita." 

"  Perdita  ?    Bum  name,  that !    What 's  your  lay  ?" 

"Nothing,  in  particular." 

"  Flush,  eh  ?    Made  a  haul  ?" 

Perdita  nodded. 

"  Hello  !  you,"  said  the  man,  raising  his  voice,  "  fetch 
'arf  a  pint  for  this  lady." 

The  ale  was  brought,  and  Perdita  raised  it  to  her  lips, 
saying,  "  Here  's  your  health  !" 

"  Same  to  you,  my  dear,"  said  the  man,  taking  a  gulp 

from  his  pewter.  "By  G !  you're  one  of  the  right 

sort.  Do  you  know  who  I  am  ?" 

Perdita  looked  at  him.  "  You  're  a  stout  fellow," 
she  said ;  "  you  look  as  if  you  could  take  your  own  part. 
Are  you  a  highwayman  ?" 

"Easy  !  none  of 'that !"  exclaimed  the  man,  in  a  low 
tone,  catching  her  by  the  shoulder.  Perditu  eyed  him 
composedly,  and  he  presently  relinquished  his  grasp,  and 


898  DUST. 

chuckled.  "All  right,"  he  said,  "I  see  you  know  a 
thing  or  two.  Now,  look  here.  I  ain't  got  no  mort. 
What  do  you  say — shall  we  strike  hands  ?  You  and  me 
together  can  do  good  business.  What  do  you  say  ?" 

*'  What  do  you  mean  by  mort  ?" 

"  Come,  now  ?  Walker  I    Well,  wife,  if  you  like." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  '11  marry  me  ?" 

"  As  sure  as  my  name 's — what  it  is  1"  said  the  man. 

"  Will  you  take  care  of  me,  and  beat  any  man  who 
insults  me  ?" 

"Yes,  I  will!" 

"  I  have  a  great  mind  te  let  you  marry  me,"  said  Per- 
dita,  after  a  pause.  "  You  'd  be  as  good  as  anybody  else, 
and  perhaps  better.  But  I  've  been  married  once,  and  I 
don't  think  I  shall  ever  inarry  again.  I'm  going  to  do 
something  else." 

"What?" 

" That 's  no  business  of  yours." 

"  Can't  yer  marry  me  and  do  that,  too  ?" 

"No." 

"Well,  look  here!  Think  it  over.  I've  got  money, 
and  I  can  make  things  easy  for  you.  You  '11  find  me 
here  to-morrow.  I  ain't  often  met  the  woman  I  'd  take 
to  as  quick  as  I  would  to  you.  Think  it  over.  You 
ain't  got  any  other  chap  in  your  eye,  have  yer  ?" 

"I'll  promise  you  this  much,"  said  Perdita;  "if  I 
don't  marry  you,  I  '11  marry  no  one  else." 

"  And  will  you  be  here  to-morrow  ?" 

"If  I'm  alive." 

"  That 's  hearty  1  Well,  good-by,  my  dear,  if  you  must 
go.  Give  us  a  kiss,  won't  yer  ?" 

"  Why  ?" 

"  Because  I  'm  fond  of  yer." 

"  Truly  ?" 

"  Honor  bright !" 

"You  may  kiss  me,"  said  Perdita ;  and  when  he  had 


DUST.  899 

done  so,  she  added,  "  You  have  done  what  no  other  man 
will  ever  do.     Good-bye  I" 

"When  the  Marquise  reached  home,  it  was  after  five 
o'clock.  In  the  dressing-room  she  found  Madame  Cabot ; 
the  black  satin  dress  was  laid  out  on  the  sofa,  and  the 
diamonds  were  on  the  dressing-table.  The  Marquise 
performed  her  toilet  carefully,  and  when  it  was  com- 
pleted, she  scrutinized  her  appearance  with  unusual 
deliberation.  "Do  I  look  well,  Madame  Cabot?"  she 
asked  at  length. 

"I  have  never  seen  Madame  la  Marquise  look  more 
beautiful." 

Perdita  smiled.  ""Well,  I  have  need  to  look  beauti- 
ful to-night.  The  gentleman  whom  I  expect  to-night — 
Monsieur  Fillmore — is  coming  to  claim  rny  promise  to 
marry  him.  A  woman  should  appear  beautiful  in  the 
eyes  of  her  bridegroom,  should  she  not,  Madame 
Cabot  ?" 

"  Without  doubt !  Madame  la  Marquise  is  then  re- 
solved to  marry  ?" 

"I  have  resolved  to  change  my  condition,"  said  Per- 
dita. "I  am  tired  of  this  lonely  life,  and  am  going  to 
make  an  end  of  it." 

"  May  Madame  enjoy  every  happiness  I" 

"I  don't  think  of  that — I  don't  expect  it!"  said  the 
Marquise,  after  a  pause.  "After  my  experience,  Ma- 
dame Cabot,  I  should  be  a  fool  to  look  forward  to  hap- 
piness, either  in  this  state  or  in  any  other.  But  it  will 
be  a  change,  at  least:  a  great  change!"  She  added, 
after  a  moment,  "  I  have  spoken  to  you  of  this,  because, 
when  the  change  comes,  I  shall  not  any  longer  need 
your  services.  You  have  been  comfortable  with  me,  I 
hope,  madame  V" 

"  It  will  be  a  great  grief  to  me  to  leave  Madame  le. 
Marquise." 


400  DUST. 

The  Marquise  seemed  gratified.  "You  will  be  able 
to  make  yourself  comfortable  in  your  own  way,  here- 
after," she  said.  "I  have  arranged  that  you  shall  want 
for  nothing  in  the  future  ....  Well,  you  may  leave 
me  now.  Remember  that  no  one  is  to  be  admitted  but 
Monsieur  Fillmore ;  and  that  I  am  not  to  be  disturbed 
till  he  comes." 

"  I  shall  not  forget,  Madame." 

"Good-night." 

"Good-night,  Madame  la  Marquise,  and  much  feli- 
city!" 

Perdita  went  into  her  boudoir  and  locked  the  door. 
The  candles  were  lighted,  the  fire  was  burning  cheer- 
fully, everything  was  warm  and  luxurious.  Perdita  held 
in  her  hands  a  large  vial  containing  a  colorless  fluid, 
and  something  done  up  in  a  piece  of  paper.  These  she 
placed  on  the  table,  beside  the  crystal  Persian  lamp, 
which  has  already  been  mentioned.  She  drew  a  chair 
to  the  table,  and  seating  herself  in  it,  unfolded  the  paper, 
which  proved  to  contain  a  small  wick.  This  she  in- 
serted in  the  lamp,  and  then  filled  the  lamp  full  of  the 
colorless  fluid  from  the  vial.  Finally,  she  lit  the  wick 
from  one  of  the  candles.  It  burned  with  a  pale  bluish 
flame,  emitting,  however,  an  intense  heat. 

After  contemplating  this  flame  awhile,  and  testing  its 
ardor  by  passing  her  hand  over  it,  Perdita  rose  up  ner- 
vously, and  glanced  around  her.  She  had  suddenly 
grown  very  pale,  and  her  eyes  looked  black.  Her  lips 
also  were  white,  and  for  a  moment  they  trembled ;  but 
only  for  a  moment.  She  held  herself  erect,  and  raised 
her  head,  looking  straight  before  her  across  the  table,  as 
if  at  some  one  who  stood  on  the  other  side.  Her  expres- 
sion, at  first,  was  haughty;  but  gradually  it  softened, 
and  at  last  became  exquisitely  tender  and  gentle.  Her 
bosom  rose  and  fell  with  a  long  sigh.  .  .  . 

She  raised  her  hands,  and  clasped  them  firmly  over 


DUST.  401 

her  eyes.  She  stooped  quickly  down,  until  her  lips  al- 
most touched  the  bluish  flame  of  the  lamp,  at  the  same 
instant  drawing  in  a  sharp,  deep  breath,  that  made  the 
flame  leap  far  down  her  throat.  She  tried  to  do  it  a 
second  time,  but  only  partially  succeeded.  She  reeled 
backward,  uttering  no  sound,  and  fell,  as  she  had  wished 
to  do,  on  the  sofa.  A  few  convulsive  movements  shook 
her,  and  then  she  lay  still,  her  head  thrown  back,  and 
her  eyes  half  closed.  Her  position  had  not  altered  by  a 
hair's  breadth  when,  an  hour  later,  the  door  was  broken 
open,  and  Fillmore  came  in. 

Perdita's  death  was  known  to  many  persons  in  Lon- 
don that  same  night ;  but  the  news  did  not  reach  Ham- 
mersmith until  the  next  morning.  It  so  happened  that 
Marion  was  the  first  to  receive  it,  by  a  messenger  from 
Lady  Flanders.  She  read  the  few  lines,  scarcely  com- 
prehending their  purport ;  but  after  waiting  a  few  mo- 
ments, she  read  them  again,  and  understood  them.  She 
returned  up-stairs  with  difficulty,  for  all  strength  seemed 
to  have  gone  out  of  her.  She  entered  the  room  in  which 
Philip  was,  but  was  unable  to  speak.  She  held  the  paper 
toward  him. 

"  From  Lady  Flanders,  eh  ?"  said  he,  recognizing  the 
handwriting.  "An  invitation  to  dinner  I  suppose." 
He  read  what  was  written,  and  silence  fell  upon  him. 
Marion,  though  she  would  gladly  have  turned  her  eyes 
away  from  him,  could  not  do  so.  She  saw  the  change 
that  came  over  his  face,  and  it  made  her  heart  faint. 
He  kept  his  eyes  down,  gazing  at  the  paper,  and  it 
seemed  to  Marion  as  if  he  were  never  going  to  raise 
them.  The  suspense  became  more  than  she  could  bear, 
and  it  gave  her  the  power  to  use  her  voice. 

"Do  you  know  why  she  did  it,  Philip?"  was  her 
question. 

He  looked  up,  at  last,  with  a  slow  and  heavy  move- 


402  DUST. 

ment,  as  if  his  eyelids  were  weighted,  and  met  his  wife's 
gaze  gloomily. 

"If  I  do  know,"  he  said,  "it  was  for  something  very 
worthless." 

"Have  you  .  .  .  anything  to  tell  me?"  asked  Ma- 
rion, just  audibly. 

"  Perdita  was  honest  and  noble :  she  died  pure.  There 
is  nothing  to  tell.  A  priest  would  absolve  me ;  I  can 
never  absolve  myself.  Many  a  man  who  has  sinned  is 
worthier  to  be  your  husband  than  one  who  has  avoided 
sin  as  I  have." 

There  followed  a  deep  silence.  Then  Marion  moved 
a  step  nearer  to  him,  and  said,  "Do  you  love  me, 
Philip?" 

"I  used  to  say  'yes'  last  summer,"  he  replied;  "I 
thought  I  could  do  anything  and  be  anything,  then. 
Now  it  seems  to  me  that  I  am  nothing,  and  can  do 
nothing.  "Whether  I  love  you,  or  not,  years  must  tell 
you,  not  words.  Such  men  as  I  are  the  curse  of  the 
earth." 

"You  are  not  a  curse  to  me!"  said  Marion,  putting 
her  arms  around  him,  and  looking  up  in  his  face. 
"  You  are  my  husband,  and  I  love  you :  and  neither 
years  nor  words  shall  make  me  believe  you  do  not  love 
your  wife  I" 

[THE  EKD.] 


PUBLISHED     BY     FORDS,      HOWARD,     &      HULBERT, 
27  Park   Place,  New  York. 

THE 

GLEVERDALE 
- I  MYSTERY; 

The  Machine  and  its  Wheels. 

By  W.  A.  WILKINS,  Editor  of  the  Whitehall  QX.  Y.)  Times. 


A  novel  of  American  life,  lovs  and  politics,  giving  an  in- 
side view  of  the  average  working  of  State  political  machina- 
tions and  their  results  in  business  and  domestic  life.  If  you 
want  fun,  fact  and  fancy — buy  it  and  read  it  / 

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an  obscure  part  of  the  State  of  N»-w  York,  will  in  a  few  days  step  into 
public  notice  through  the  medium  of  a  b  ok.  It  will  not  be  an  unenvia- 
ble notoriety  either.  In  "  The  Cleverdale  Mystery  "  he  has  woven 
about  the  machine  "  boss  "  of  American  politics  and  his  associates  a  story 

whose  satire  must  strike  every  reader He  presents  his  subject  in  a 

manner  that  cannot  help  carrying  conviction.  The  struggle  of  Darius, 
Hamblin  for  office,  his  ruin  and  his  criminal  acts,  form  a  most  conspicu 
ous  leatuie  of  the  book;  but  underneath  lies  a  tender  love  tale,  with 

many  stro  :g  situations  and  pathetic  touches The  publishers  of  "A 

Foot's  Errand  "  are  bringing  out  "The  Cleverdale  Mystery,"  and  the 
latter  will  no  doubt  prove  almost  as  popular  as  did  the  first  named  book. 
—Special  Correspondence  Chicago  Tribune. 

1  Mr.  WILKINS,  who  has  had  a  long  and  practical  experience  of  New 
York  politics  [as  Editor  and  Committee-man],  has  introduced  into  his  story 
the  whol;  personal  composition  and  paraphernalia  of  the  political  ma- 
chine. Senator  Hamblin,  Cyrus  Hart  Miller,  ex- Assembly  man  Daly, 
Paddy  Sullivan,  Editor  Rawhnps  and  the  other  characters  will  be  recog- 
nized as  types,  if  not  as  portraits,  of  working  politicians  of  the  day;  not 
a  little  skill  is  displayed  in  the  construction  of  the  plot,  and  us  the  book, 
unlike  the  average  political  novel,  is  non-partisan,  it  will  be  read  with 
pleasure  by  thousands  for  whom  '  practical  politics  '  is  but  a  name." — 
New  York  World, 

"There  are  dozens  of  other  life-like  political  pictures:  indeed  the 
reader's  interest  is  held  from  first  to  last  by  the  author's  absolute  fidelity 
to  things  as  they  are." — Kttu  York  Htraul. 

"  A  crisp,  sparkling  novel  *  *  *  Dcsuncd  to  make  a  sensation.' 
N.  Y.  M-.,«. 

Extra  English  Cloth.    Price,  $1.00. 


PUBLISHED    BY    FORDS,    HOWARD,    &    HULBERT, 
27  Park  Place,  New  York. 


MADAME  LA  TOUR 


A.  Story  of  Great  Salt 


Part  I. — A  novel,  which  does  for  Mormonism  what 
"Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  did  for  Slavery,  and  "A  Fool's 
Errand"  for  the  Bondage  of  the  Freedmen  in  the  recon- 
structed South — swings  back  the  doors  and  lets  in  the  reveal- 
ing light  of  day ! 

"A  vivid  and  startling  picture." — Boston  Gazette. 

"The  fascination  of  thrilling  fiction."— Cincinnati  Commercial. 

"  We  only  wish  every  cultivated  woman  could  read  it.'1 — Chi- 
cago Inter-Ocean. 

"A  very  valuable  book,  bearing  upon  its  every  page  the  impress 

of  trustworthiness  and  sincerity.  '  — Llevetand  Herald. 

\"  It  may  be  that  the  facts  here  presented  will  have  some  effect 

upon  the  conscience  of  a  nation  too  long  indifferent." — New  York 

Tribune. 

"  Gives  fresh  and  breezy  pictures  of  pioneer  life,  and  portrays 
the  ideas,  principles,  and  modes  of  the  Mormons,  showing  the 
strange  and  curious  ramifications  of  that  remarkable  system  of 
government,  and  giv°  1  the  key  to  many  puzzling  questions."  - 
Detroit  Free  Press. 

"Not  only  literature  but  statesmanship  of  a  high  order.  .  .  . 
handled  with  remarkable  skill,  delicacy,  and  reserve,  and  marked 
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World  (Boston). 

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while  solemn  enough  in  its  facts  and  in  its  warnings  to  engage  the 
attention  of  the  most  serious  statesmen." — The  Critic  (N.  Y.) 

Part  II. — An  Appendix  giving  a  concise  History  of 
Utah  from  1870  to  1881 :  completion  of  Pacific  railroads ; 
incoming  of  Gentiles ;  opening  of  Mines ;  clash  of  Chris- 
tianity with  Mormonism ;  first  Gentile  Church ;  Mission 
Work  ;  Hebrews  and  Catholics  ;  Utah  Legislature  ;  Woman 
Suffrage ;  Need  of  Schools  and  free  Education  ;  Polygamous 
Marriages  in  1880;  the  70,000  Mormons  in  Arizona,  Colo- 
rado, Idaho,  Wyoming,  and  Nevada ;  a  compact  volume  of 
information  on  the  question  of  the  day. 

"An  Appendix  of  many  pages  bristles  with  information  to  par- 
allel the  narrative's  fiction."— Rochester  Rural  Home. 

_"  A  most  valuable  part  is  the  Appendix  of  seventy  pages,  filled 
.rith  historical  confirmatory  statements." — St.  Paul  Pioneer-Press. 

"A  trustworthy  history  of  Mormonism.  .  .  Never  have  its 
mysteries  been  more  skillfully  unraveled,  never  have  the  sympa- 
thies of  the  reader  been  more  intensely  aroused." — Providence 
Journal. 

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27  Park  Place,   New  York. 

THE  STILL  HUNTER. 

A.    Practical    Treatise    on    I>eer  - 


BY  THEODORE  S.  VAN   DYKE, 

Author  of  "  The  Rifle,  Rod,  and  Gun  in  California." 

12mo,  Extra  Cloth,  beveled,    ------    $2.OO. 

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"A  classic  in  the  sporting  literature  of  America."  —  Turf.  Field  and 
Farm.N.Y. 

"  An  instructive  treatise  on  deer-stalking,  which  young  sportsmen  will 
enjoy  for  information,  and  old  ones  for  comparison  with  their  own  methods 
and  experience."  —  New  York  World. 

'•  By  what  artifices  the  hunter  may  elude  senses  keener  than  his  own.  it 
is  the  object  of  this  interesting  and  instructive  record  of  a  veteran  sports- 
man's experience  to  disclose."  —  A''.  Y.  Sun. 

"  I  have  still-hunted  deer  for  thirty  years,  and  I  know  of  nothing  more 
admirable  in  the  way  of  scientific  exposition  than  Mr.  Van  Dyke's."—  J.  C. 
ROSSER,  M.D. 

"Though  I  have  carefully  read  the  current  sporting  literature  of  America 
for  years  past,  this  comes  the  nearest  to  my  ideal.  Still-hunting  or  deer- 
stalking is  my  favorite  pastime."  —  F.  E.  POND,  Editor  Frank  forresier't 
Work* 

"  The  best  work  from  the  pen  of  thii  fluent  and  graceful  writer."— 
American  Field,  Chicago. 

Rifle,  Rod  and  Gun  in  California. 

A  SPORTING    ROMANCE. 

BY   THEODORE    S.  VAN   DYKE. 
12mo,  Extra  Cloth,  beveled,    ------    *1.KO. 

"Something  new  under  the  sun  .....  Mr.  Van  Dyke  uses  the  pen  as 
skillfully  as  _the  gun."—  Providence  (R.  I.)  Bulletin. 

"  Its  spirited  and  lifelike  descriptions  will  make  every  one  who  has  ever 
found  enjoyment  with  the  rod  and  gun  tingle  with  the  delight  of  pleasant 
recollections."  —  Chicago  Dial. 

''  Crisp  and  readable  throughout,  and,  at  the  same  time,  gives  a  full  and 
truthful  technical  account  of  our  Southern  California  game  afoot,  afloat  or 
on  the  wing."  —  San  Francisco  Alta  California. 

"  It  is  written  as  such  a  book  should  be  written  .....  It  exhibits  the 
sportsman's  observation  of  nature,  and  his  unflagging  good  spirits  —  the  result 
of  both  being  a  breezy,  dewy  book."—  N.  Y.  Evening  Mail. 

"  A  very  successful  attempt  to  combine  the  interest  of  a  novel  with  the 


fishing  and  sporting  in  pursuit  of  the  smaller  kinds  of  game,  are  racy  and 
vivid,  and  there  is  just  enough  love-making  woven  in  with  the  wild  life  to 
give  it  additional  zest." — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 


PUBLISHED    BY    FORDS,    HOWARD,    A    HULBERT, 
27  Park  Place,  New  York. 

AMERICAN  HISTORICAL  NOVELS, 

By  ALBION  ¥.  TOURGEE,  late  MIS  Superior  Ccnrt,  Norm  Carolina. 


"  The  novels  of  this  author  have  served  as  campaign  documents  to  a  degree  thai 
may  obscure  their  merits  as  literature;  yet,  the  tiuth  is,  scarcely  anything  in  fiction 
so  powerful  has  been  written,  from  a  merely  literary  standpoint,  as  these  books. 
'Uncle  Tom'.s  Cabin'  cannot  compare  wilh  them  in  this  jespect." — Sprin£fieloj 
(Mass.)  Republican. 

"A  FOOL'S  ERRAND," 

By    One   of   the    Fools. 

361  ra»es-    Cloth,  $1.00. 

"  It  is  nothing  Jess  than  an  extraordinary  work.  In  matter,  it  in  intensely 
Interesting;  in  manner,  it  is  forcible  and  vivid  to  a  rare  degree." — International 
Reviriu. 

"  A  political  and  social  study  .  .  .  pursued  with  great  candor  and  no  small 
dis:rimination." — 'I  he  Nation. 

''  To  be  read  wiih  profound  interest  for  its  luminous  exposition  of  historical  facts, 
as  well  as  to  b-  admired  for  it>  masterly  power  of  p:cturesque  ar.J  pathetic  descrip- 
tion."—New  York  Tribune. 

"BRICKS  WITHOUT  STRAW." 

521  pages.     With  Frontispiece.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"A  work  of  wonderful  interest  and  wonderful  power.  ...  It  will  be 
read  with  absorbing  attention,  and  recognized  as  one  of  the  most  effective  of  those 
books  written  '  for  a  purpose.' " — Boston  Gazette. 

"The  characters  are  real  creations  of  romai.ce,  who  will  live  alongside  of  Mrs. 
Stowe's  or  Waller  Scott's  till  the  times  that  gave  them  birth  have  been  forgotten." 
— Advance,  Chicaeo. 

"Since  the  days  of  Swift  and  his  pamphleteers,  we  doubt  if  fiction  has  been 
made  to  play  so  caustic  and  delicate  a  part." — San  Francisco  ff/evis- Letter. 

"The  delicacy  and  keenness  of  its  saure  are  equal  to  anything  within  the  range 
of  my  knowledge." — fret.  Anderson,  Rochester  University. 

"FIGS  AND  THISTLES." 

538   pages.      With    Frontispiece.      Cloth,  $1.50. 

»  'Crowded  with  incident,  populous  with  strong;  characters,  rich  in  humor,  and 
from  the  beginning  to  the  end  alive  with  interest." — Boston  Commonwealth. 

"It is,  we  think,  evident  that  the  hero  of  the  book  is  JAMES  A.  GARFIELD. 
...  It  embodies,  also,  the  best  description  of  a  battle — not  of  its  plan,  tho 
movement  of  troops,  and  the  results  of  strategic  and  tactical  forces,  but  of  what  one 
man,  a  private  soldier  in  the  ranks,  saw  during  a  battle — that  we  have  ever  read." — 
Atchison  (Kan.)  Champion. 

"  The  author  has  made  a  most  spirited  and  skillful  use  of  the  scenes  and  inci- 
dents of  the  war."— Atlantic  Monthly. 

"  A  capital  American  story.  Its  characters  are  not  from  foreign  courts  or  the 
pestilential  dens  of  foreign  cities.  They  are  fresh  from  the  real  life  of  the  forest  and 
prairie  of  the  West." — Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

"  The  readers  and  admirers  of  'A  Fool's  Errand,'  who  take  up  this  book  expect- 
ing to  be  instructed  and  entertained,  will  not  be  disappointed." — Rochester  Express. 


PUBLISHED    BY    FORDS,    HOWARD,    &    HUU2I.KT, 
27  Park  Place.  New  York. 

JUDGE  TOURGEE'S  NEW  EQQK. 


'J 


OHN 


AX." 


SOUTH 
WITHOUT 

THE 

SHADOW. 


" '  A  Fool's  Errand '  lay  in  the  gloom  of  the  Shadow.  This  book 
reflects  the  light  of  the  time." — Indianapolis  News. 

"  Displays  more  than  any  of  his  previous  wcrks.  his  power  of  hu- 
mor and  of  graphic  description  of  men,  scenes,  and  events." — Chris- 
tian Herald  (Detroit). 

'•  Cannot  fail  to  reach  and  impress  a  wide  constituency  of  readers." 
—  The  A  merican. 

"  Of  absorbing  interest  to  those  satiated  with  the  artificial  atmos- 
phere of  the  modern  society  novel." — Boston  Traveller. 

"  Will  greatly  add  to  the  author's  popularity."— Detroit  Commer- 
cial Advertiser, 

"  Its  chief  value  lies  in  its  effects  of  cheery  hopefulness." — 
Washington  Chronicle. 

"  Charmingly  told  and  well  balanced  ;  shows  humor,  pathos,  and 
beyond  all,  the  prime  requisite  for  success  in  novel-writing,  a  clear 
and  minute  knowledge  of  human  nature." — Cleveland  Leader. 

"The  best  of  Tourgee's  books."—  Macon  (Ga.)  Telezraph  and 
Messenger. 

"  All  the  characters  are  admirably  drawn,  and  there  is  a  natural 
realism  about  them  that  impresses  the  reader  with  the  fact  that  they 
are  true  to  the  life." — Lutheran  Observer. 

"  The  vizor  and  picturesqueness  of  the  author  are  again  manifest." 
— Boston  Commonwealth. 

"  A  notable  addition  to  the  Judge's  already  famous  gallery  of  life- 
studies." — Star  and  Covenant  (Chicago). 

"  Written  in  the  author's  quick,  _ncrvous  style,  and  has  plenty  of 
dash,  with  frequent  dramatic  situations  and  graphic  delineations." — 
Th*  Dial  (Chicago). 

A  handsome  I2mo  volume,  with  illustrative  binding 
stamps.  Silk  pattern  cloth.  Price,  $i. 

For  sale  by  your  Bookseller,  or  mailed,  postpaid,  on 
receipt  of  price  by  the  Publishers, 

FORDS,  HOWARD,  &  HULBERT, 

27  Park  Place,  New  York. 


PUBLISHED    BY    FORDS,     HOWARD,    &    HULBERT, 
27  Park  Place,  New  York. 

HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE'S  BOOKS. 

DOMESTIC   TALES. 

My  Wife  and  I ;  or,  Harry  Henderson's  History.  A  Novel. 
Illustrated.  I2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

"Always  bright,  piquant,  and  entertaining,  with  an  occasional  touch  of  tender- 
ness, strong  because  subtle,  keen  in  sarcasm,  full  of  womanly  logic  directed  against 
unwomanly  tendencies." — Boston  Journal. 

We  and  Our  Neighbors :  The  Records  of  an  Unfashionable 
Street.  A  Novel.  .Illustrated.  I2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

"  Mrs.  Stowe's  style  is  picturesque,  piquant,  with  just  enough  vivacity  and  vim 
to  give  the  romance  edge ;  and  throughout  there  are  delicious  sketches  of  scenes, 
with  bits  of  dry  humor  peculiar  to  her  writings." — Pittsburgh  (Pa.)  Commercial. 

Poganuc  People :  Their  Loves  and  Lives.  A  Novel.  IIlus 
trated.  I2mo,  cloth,  $1.50.  {Recent!)  In  Mrs.  Stowe's  early 
inimitable  style  of  New  England  scene  and  character. 


The  New  Housekeeper's  Manual  and  Handy  Cook-Book. 
A  Guide  to  Economy  and  Enjoyment  in  Home  Life.  (Gives 
nearly  500  choice  and  well-tested  receipts.)  By  CATHARINE 
E.  BEECHER  and  HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE.  Nearly  600 
pp.,  8vo.  Handsomely  Illustrated.  Cloth,  $3. 

"Considering  the  great  variety  of  subjects  over  which  it  ranges,  one  is  aston- 
ished to  find,  when  he  tests  it  by_  reference  to  any  question  on  which  he  is  personally 
well  informed,  how  accurate  is  its  teaching,  and  how  trustworthy  its  authority." — 
Independent. 

RELIGIOUS   BOOKS. 

Footsteps  of  the  Master:  Studies  in  the  Life  of  Christ.     With 

Illustrations  and  Illuminated  Titles.    I2mo.    Choicely  bound. 

Cloth,  $1.50. 

"A  very  sweet  book  01  wholesome  religious  thought." — Evening  Post. 

"  A  congenial  field  for  the  exercise  of  her  choice  literary  gifts  and  poetic  tastes, 
her  ripe  religious  experience,  and  her  fervent  Christian  faith.  A  book  of  exceptional 
beauty  and  substantial  worth." — Congregationalist  (Boston). 

Bible  Heroines :   Narrative  Biographies  of  Prominent  Hebrew 
Women    in   the    Patriarchal,   National,  and   Christian  Eras. 
Imperial  Octavo.     Richly  Illustrated  in  Oil  Colors     Elegantly 
bound.     Cloth,  $2.75  ;   cloth,  gilt  edges,  $3.25. 
"  The  fine  penetration,  quick  insight,  sympathetic  nature,  and  glowing  narra- 
tive, which  have  marked  Mrs.  Stowe's  previous  works,  are  found  in  these  pages,  and 
the  whole  work  is  one  which  readily  captivates  equally  the  cultivated  and  the  relig- 
•ous  fervent  nature."-  -Boston  Commonwealth. 


